The House of the Dead

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The way you watch me
You remind me of
Hern the Hunter:
Only that you sport no antlers
And you watch me in silence.


Do you wait so that
My skin will fall off, so that
When my last life-blood drips down
Outside my vein, you will see the truth?
That I will love again?


These last moments before the send off:
Solemn thoughts and
Steadfast convictions arrived at.
On two sides we meditate the grave
With the coffin between us.

Those many moments we let by.
Those unstrived for times
That were so ordinary to our touch.
Perhaps, we could have spoken more;
Perhaps, not so much.

A corpse stilled in death, yes:
But, you let me off so easily,
Without an effort to hold me back.
Without a single glance of that kind affection.
Is something the matter? With me?


The sand settles where our passions waste.
A homely house will be put up on the dust.
Soft winds will simmer to the sunrise. Bluebells tinkle.
Mothers will sing songs about the cuckoo’s nest.



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