Morse, My Deaf Friend [small paper bag...] Poem by Miloš Đurđević

small paper bag filled with tiny white shells gathered at the cemetery
near Edam, a town a few kilometers from a fisherman's village; the
cemetery lies at the fill dam, a hill ten meters high, heavy gravestones
made from shale and granite, paths leading between neat plots
absorbing steps as if you are walking on a carpet, and after a while
you notice it is not sand nor macadam, you are walking on billions of
tiny casings - most often grayish blue, in several hues of ochre and
brown, yellowish and dirty white seashells, their striped, lumpy,
smooth, insides grounded with a thin layer of pasted sand, rims always
chipped from abrasion and stepping on, too small for anyone's ear
(deaf?), protected by stone fencing and the wall of the great church
(cattle were sheltered inside it once when dams spilled over and fields
were flooded) from wind and gusts of rain coming from the North
Sea: innumerous (dead) dots and dashes, light residue of rubbed out
color, porous remains (from what?), inside them there's no whirr, dry
cough of the dead