Who whispers here is forgotten.
Saliva's emptiest fruit
adorns the stones,
words ripening your mouth
to a spoilation
of silence.
Who speaks here
reads a text that downloads
the screen of his fingernail,
through which nothing's visible
as glass is.
For the memorial
we must kneel
to pick each flower
from amongst its modifiers:
but to do that
one needs a hand bared
of all uses, of all trades:
as ours is not.
Oh this is as majestic, stately and dignified as the Cemetery.........so stirring and moving emotionally.......... thanks for sharing
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'm a little bit lost in the cemetary, but the last stanza has me lingering as I read it again and again.