Song Of Death Poem by Gabriela Mistral

Song Of Death

Rating: 3.3


Old Woman Census-taker,
Death the Trickster,
when you're going along,
don't you meet my baby.

Sniffing at newborns,
smelling for the milk,
find salt, find cornmeal,
don't find my milk.

Anti-Mother of the world,
People-Collector -
on the beaches and byways,
don't meet that child.

The name he was baptized,
that flower he grows with,
forget it, Rememberer.
Lose it, Death.

Let wind and salt and sand
drive you crazy, mix you up
so you can't tell
East from West,

or mother from child,
like fish in the sea.
And on the day, at the hour,
find only me.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Dr Antony Theodore 12 July 2020

Let wind and salt and sand drive you crazy, mix you up so you can't tell East from West, or mother from child, like fish in the sea. a very fine poem. tony

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Castellenas John 05 May 2019

A feel of the ancient poets in the words. Powerful and worthwhile words.

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Dj akshaydjakshaydjakshay 26 February 2019

Dj akshaydjakshaydjakshay

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