Theft

When first I saw the old man dead, I laid a curious hand upon his head, To steal that little left in the soul's mould, The knowledge of the rigour and the cold. I asked no pardon of the Clay, For the dead eyes had wandered in their day. And kneeling ceremonious at his side, I found a book he'd dropt the day he died. Verses — which I repeated to dead ears in lieu of prayers. I stole the book, regardless of his heirs. Asking no pardon of the Clay, For the dead man had loved me in his day.