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"Plaudicite, amici!"
In that phrase I hear the echo of
A trite Zen koan.
Reformulate it thus:
What is the sound
Of no one clapping?
Ah, but in the afterlife,
What else can one expect?
Accolades transmitted
By bugles fused to angels' lips?
Eloquent critiques
Stitched onto mists with gossamer,
Delivered by a zephyr?
Death slams the door behind us;
We are encased in darkness,
Pickled and packed in excelsior,
Deaf to jeers and tributes alike,
And brooding on eternity
Becomes our sole preoccupation.