The graves are pure
She said
And nothing ever had meant the same to her
In the
Garden
The whole arcane explosion had begun
And
I
Left the decomposing self behind
(in its small ashtray)
It is enough
I had seemed to say
Although my words
Came out
Cracked
And abused
The garden thrums with Death
And maybe I should be there
To see
To feel the fight
To absorb my self in something other than
(the sweet scented corpses)
And listen out for my name
Because the age has drawn out
A thick steady hand
That drowns in its tears
Carves up the bone
Leaves
(you)
Lost in the mist
Its time, she said
-with- a long drawn pause
She lifts up her hand
(slowly) drowns with
The archetype
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem