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

it is the needle of death looking for thread.

graves full of bones that do not make a sound,

coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,

comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no

and the somber color of embittered winter.

in it darkness, darkness, darkness,

There are cemeteread.99csw.comries that are lonely,

and the beds go sailing toward a port

Sometimes I see alone

in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:

finger in it,

Nevertheless its steps can be heard

coffins under sail,

the heart moving through a tunnel,

and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

of violets that are at home in the earth,

the river of dark purple,

the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,

comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no

with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf

like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,

caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,

because the fahttps://read.99csw.comce of death is green,

as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,

where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,

it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,

filled by the sound of death which is silence.

and pensive young girls married to notary publics,

Trread.99csw.comanslated by Robert Bly

death is inside the bones,

throat.

with bakers who are as white as angels,

like a barking where there are no dogs,

feet made of cold and sticky clay,

as though we were drowning inside our hearts,

Death arrives among all that sound

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,

embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead ha九*九*藏*書ir,

like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,

but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,

moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,

Death is inside the folding cots:

lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,

growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

death is inside the broom,

and the look death gives is green,