"<p>Who is quietly restless here, was a writer and moved to the ranks of the living. He died thirty-six years, lived a few days, And when he thought, he only dreamed A few pages. And when he was laughed at: He thought he was laughing. Now he lies here under this heavy Graveyard, The germ sprouts from his green skull And he dreams that he is alive. Poor. To the sounds of peace! Amen.</p>"