Sir, we have heard of your death.
To die thus is unequivocally brutal.
But when we came to your tomb
the sweet smell astonished us.
You spoke of white, painted tombs
that reek of corruption within.
Your tomb is externally shameful,
as the grave of a malefactor,
but inside the breath is forever ravishing,
more than lavender and cloves.
What, then, has death become?