(A short poem intended to serve as food for thought for our politicians)

What epitaph will hung On this icy grave When life�s final nightfall Throws you its blind spot? What chorus dares to ring In the silent ears Shrouding the deep darkness Of life�s last black hole? What bird will sweetly sing And what bird will hoot Will it be nightingale Or will it be owl? How can a man�s back spine Or hair on his head Be cast by his own eyes But by back mirrors As the mirrors cast you And the sounds echo Into your inner ears So will they engrave You read the epitaph You hear the chorus Feeling sweet to your ears Where close, sore where far However they appear Clearly or twisted Shadows in the mirror Are cast images.