Sometimes
When I go
To cemeteries
I wonder
What the bones
Underneath the
Silent grounds
Are doing.
And in
Somber nights,
I think about them
Again
Sometimes rattling,
Often times breathing
But still to me,
They are dead.
In another plane
Of ridiculous marvels,
I wonder
Over the tombs,
The lulled requiems
And the clandestine
Photographs,
Are the bones
Wondering
What I am
Doing above them,
Alive
And breathing?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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