Death!
Without your tender touch
The world is without poetry
And more barren than winter fields.
There would be no homecomings,
No final trystings among the stars,
No more evocative elegies -
Only sweetly cloying honeyflow.
I pray to the patron of bards,
The mother of healing fires,
Do not let Death abandon us!
Without liberation we are prisoners
Of our own eternal monotony,
Doomed to endless blooms.
Walk with us, Death!
Feed the hungry -
Let ravens feast, let earth be nourished,
Let poets sing!
And you will sing back to us
All the gone ghosts.

(Note: This was originally composed as a satire but it can be taken in whatever way you read it. Can a satire be a praise poem too? I think so, in some cases.)