The Green bristlegrass, undated

1 sheet ; 30 x 21 cm. Holograph with corrections in red. A poem (Note 2)

Who, after all, can argue with the grave,
When death only is the permanent address?
When all the condolers have left,
What if the undertaker's back door
Opens on the south or the north?
The coach looks always ready for exile,
And none can dissuade it from the trip.
The so-called immortality
May prove an empty password
For whoever must at night,
Whether it does work and convince. None
Ends up taller than the bristlegrass
Unless his name soars to the stars
To join Li Po or RilKe, while the rest
Has no chance but stay beneath the grass.
Let name stay with fame, and dust with rust,
Star with star, earthworm with earthworm.
If a voice calls under the night sky