Beauty’s ashes are contained in an urn,
Painted with fine tales of love and art.
Unheard melodies have to be sweeter
As silence of men from the mountain.
Here is dumb heifer being led by priest
As gourmet pleasure of gods and men.
All is quiet about our beauty and truth.
Alive, we see glazed beauty on the urn.
We smell beauty’s ashes inside this urn
Unheard melodies stuck in an old truth.
Inside are beauty and truth hopelessly
Mixed up with timeless art about death.
(Reading Keats’s Ode on a Grecian urn)