The dead are no burden to us at all.
The earth carries them for us
Quite nicely, putting its dirty shoulder
Into their weight so that we
May continue with our petty day
Bruiting our power over each other
Putting each other into our boxes
Pretending we are immortal
And that we, ourselves, will never
Be confined to that final little box
When we force the earth to bear us
When we are empty and cold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem