Romero

O demon-fingers, blessed hands,
O friend of wood and string,
In what grand stage, what old halls do
Thy melodies now sing?

From song thou slipped, from joy walked far,
And slept come death of day.
Now passed thou hast, o'er thresholds dark,
To whither none can say.

O'er what dim vale, what dark mist does
Thy spirit find its way?
And what worn words, what empty grief
Would kith and kin now bray?

O age-worn soul, O wanderer,
Will none thy vigil hold?
The words are said, the flowers laid,
Thy memory now cold.


[[to Y. R. Pangaribuan (by name and generation my grandfather), who passed away just yesterday, and for whom I have the utmost respect. Rest his soul.]]