The sky, a magenta blaze
As the earth's ember never ceases glowing...
A young poet had died of a disease,
To be buried in heaven's lawn.
His pen lay to rest in peace,
His words, silent in summer gloom,
The world of poets weep as the auburn soil yellows,
Never again to wear bright colors.
His poems, like birds gliding in the air,
Chanting to one another in lyrical verses,
Echoing through America to Europe,
From Asia, Africa and the Oceanic,
To the sleeping cyan universe, below.
Now, Mattie Stepacek had completed his job,
He had returned where God awards him a halo.