Nothing But Death

    teries t are lonely,

    graves full of bones t do not make a sound,

    t moving tunnel,

    in it darkness, darkness, darkness,

    like a so ourselves,

    as ts,

    as t of to the soul.

    And there are corpses,

    feet made of cold and sticky clay,

    deathe bones,

    like a barking where are no dogs,

    coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,

    groears of rain.

    Sometimes I see alone

    coffins under sail,

    embarking  have dead hair,

    e as angels,

    and pensive young girls married to notary publics,

    caskets sailing up tical river of the dead,

    the river of dark purple,

    moving upstream  by th,

    filled by th which is silence.

    Deat sound

    like a s in it, like a suit ,

    comes and knocks, using a ring one in it, h no

    finger in it,

    comes and ss ongue, h no

    t.

    Neverts steps can be heard

    and its clotree.

    Im not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,

    but it seems to me t its singing s,

    of violets t are at h,

    because th is green,

    and th gives is green,

    rating dampness of a violet leaf

    and ttered er.

    But deathe world dressed as a broom,

    lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,

    deathe broom,

    tongue of death looking for corpses,

    it is thread.

    Deats:

    it spends its life sleeping on ttresses,

    in ts, and suddenly breat:

    it blo a mournful sound t ss,

    and to

    wing, dressed like an admiral.

    translated by Robert Bly