The dark of his death

The dark of his death was mixing
with the salt of my tears.
I thought, life, stopped, stopped,
and then the same again.

The last image suffers you fatal pain,
the body's surrender, of waste,
the indecent torpor that afflicts the mind.

Then, the same again, melancholy strains,
profuse sentiments, that void,
that missing, that sullen hissing,
and then the same again.

The time of burial is the cleansing act,
laying down the simmering sheet of memories,
and of one's own mortality. How unbelief stares
at the calling chasm!

You have gone but you have given
the reminder of future holocausts, of a similar pain,
the uncontestable stamp of oblivion,
the definitive song of death.