on the death of a poet

They brought me word of your death,
Herakleitos,
and I wept for you remembering
how often we watched the sun
setting as we talked.

Dear Halikarnassian friend,
you lie elsewhere now
and are mere ashes;
yet your songs—your nightingales—will live,
and never will the underworld,
destroying everything,
touch them with its deadly hand.

Kallimachos

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