They have said, I have heard
it spoken now, I am obsessed
can’t stop talking, death, about it
this time, if not one it’s another.
Call the priest, they’re joking
of course, what good would that
do in the end, all’s fair, no one
can cheat the last breath out.
Call the dogs off, the cats in.
The crows are flying low again,
you can’t get an honest answer
anywhere, the where the how
on any given day. It could
be there knocking on your door
just to say hello, not today
but another and who knows when.
Preparation, I tell them, over and
under and over, tie the knots and
cut the strings that always got you,
held you too low down for good.
It’s not, repeat, isn’t, an affair, some
sort of love, that’s not, it, is how the
night has always been a friend.
Will you answer? When it knocks?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ben, a great poem. Flowing brilliantly with humour and pathos in good proportion. The imagery is great and the line of dogs and cats is a superb invention