Hey there, dead one!
Enjoying the leaves falling, are you?
And the smell of dust-dried sweat?
Or tracing the wounds of wind on skin,
Those etched like dunes on the sands of breath?
How far is the next word,
Of the book that lays open still?
Is it still the same note,
Taking your soul to a drill?
In this other world made in the rain,
Is the space enough to clean your grave?
For the shroud lay torn, of hellos and goodbyes;
Never has a dead one begun to crave.
In these blurred pictures,
Of paths that remain yet to walk,
Beneath the weights and around the sighs,
The path of which their fables talk,
Word for word, yet tales remain undone.
To those lost pieces, your land is a rescue.
As for an escape,
Oh dead one, I’d been dead too!