Martaa

-Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, bring out the coffin.. let the mouners come. Let the aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead scribbling on the sky the message: He is dead. Put crepe bows round the necks of public doves, let traffic policemen wear black, cotton gloves.. He was my north, my south, my east, west. My working week and my sunday rest. My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song, I though love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now, put out everyone. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. Pour out the ocean and sweep out the world, for nothing now can ever come to any good.