Classic Poem

Make your pain into a harp.
Become a nightingale,
become a flower.
When bitter years arrive,
make your pain into a harp
and sing the one song.

Don't bind your wound
but with the branches of the rose.
I give you wanton myrrh
- for balm - and opium.
Don't bind your wound,
your purple blood.

Tell the gods to 'let me die!'
but hold on to the glass.
Buck against your days when
there's a festival for you.
Tell the gods to 'let me die!'
but say it with a laugh.

Make your pain into a harp.
Refresh your lips
at the lips of your wound.
One dawn, one evening,
make your pain into a harp
and laugh, and die.