at the last hour
we march toward a common grave
bringing the flowers
and some stones
they year is kept inside
a niche laced with white silk
slowly the men with strong arms
lowered the niche
to the the newly dug hole
seven feet under
the women with long black hair
wept beside their innocent children
the year is buried
as we then throw the final stones
then it is covered
with its soil returned
until it is full
and then we put the flowers
it is over
now
and then we go back to our houses
it is nighttime
we close the doors
and open the windows to see
those beautiful stars
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem