The Death of Odysseus

Doesn't matter if Tiresias was right

And the Telegony was wrong. An end comes

To an end, and only the prelude bothers

Anyone. There's no one to be bothered next.

This is old song that will not declare itself

And yet one keeps repeating: an old sailor,

Old liar, old escape artist died on deck.

He might have slipped under whispering, To strive,

To find, so forth and so on, and not to yield,

But one doubts it. People don't say much at death.

It's remarkably hard to speak without breath.