May we ask the poets to speak of death,
as clearly as Francesco Petrarca
once spoke to us "In Morte Laura,"
while we lie, waiting, to draw final breath.
Skillfully using his words to wreathe-
"una bel morir tutta una vita onora,"
(translated beautifully by Anna)
- his life's love in her funereal sheathe:
"A beautiful death gives credit to one's whole life,"
Anna's coda to serve all in death's grip -
unless surpassed by this blast from the past:
circa '68: "death is the greatest tripof all, that's why they save it 'til last."
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