Dropping a fistful of earth
on your cold body in a pit,
changes nothing.
Fistful after fistful,
like the hammer on an anvil,
changes you to nothing,
not shape you into another life’s gold
or thread you into memory’s loom.
I wait in the rain
until you disappear
under a mound of wet earth.
(2001)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem