teries t are lonely,

        graves full of bo 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,

        ing 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 ,

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

        finger in it,

        es and ss ongue, h no

        t.

        s steps    be heard

        and its clotree.

        Im not sure, I uand only a little, I    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
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