I stand by this door and hold Scraps of paper in my hand Telling of the life and times Of a single much-loved man
I hand one to each who enters They sit down on wooden seats Thinking of the sleeping knight whose True kind heart no longer beats
Gone from us without a warning Gone to travel, far too soon We, too deaf to hear it coming Strains of death’s familiar tune
“Every time a man is begotten and born, the clock of human life is wound up anew to repeat once more its same old tune that has already been played innumerable times, movement by movement and measure by measure, with insignificant variations.” – Schopenhauer
Beautiful poem… The title caught my attention. I write something with that title in mind but in a different context. <3