Here the virgins he could not devour
In his lifetime are stacked like logs
In the great cellblocks of his friendship:
Each face wrapped in a famous silence,
Each leal heart a lamp whose flame consumes
The bonds of bankrupt cities. We have gathered
Here today only to stare at, and restate
Our faith in an innocence surpassing
Mere event, more real than measurement.
His madness makes us great, for who has not
Wandered, lost and exalted, in the forest
Of his lies? Who, witnessing his slow
Ineffable decline, has not tasted
The rarest vintage of articulate grief?
He has made the blind to see, the lame to leap.
For these and other reasons it is our belief
He is divine. Tears are therefore inappropriate:
We are persuaded that his corpse shall rise.