Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Pre­vent the dog from bar­king with a juicy bone,
Silence the pia­nos and with muf­fled drum
Bring out the cof­fin, let the mour­ners come.

Let aero­pla­nes cir­cle moa­ning overhead
Scrib­bling on the sky the mes­sage He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traf­fic poli­ce­men wear black cot­ton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My wor­king week and my Sun­day rest,
My noon, my mid­night, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last fore­ver: I was wrong.

The stars are not wan­ted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dis­man­tle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden

Para a minha Mãe. Espera por mim…