A Funeral

The long bright day enters into the black night.
There is a cold funeral
and
with crooked and distorted faces
the mourners squelch through the ooze.
Decay is the pilgrim.
 
The oily black stallions canter past.
It is point - to point.
I also hold the reins
But
Who pulls them?
 
A lone boat
is voyaging in the panting muddy water.
The rudder is not visible
nor
the boatman.
 
Man has to tighten the string
and
use the plectrum
inspite of
the funeral.