I Want To Die, and Nothing But Death

"I Want To Die"

Heavenly cursed and heavily sinned I
No more i like to add them, so, I want to die
And I want to become a holy ghost
Whom the people would like the most.
Like the retreating soldiers I like to come back
To my own permanent and eternal home
You may call it a suicide or martyrdom.

In my real home I see the news
Coming from the lipstick coated lips
In the television of my molten death
People are sobbing with a heavy breath.
The atmosphere is heavy and they feel the pain
This thrills me and gives a feeling of gain.


The only son of my father
The only darling of my mother
Fainted repeatedly on the cushion
Peal like tear drops coming from my beloved son,
Friends and relatives express grief in the community hall,
All these excite me and I sought to say'' I love you all.''

For the first time in my life in my last ritual I listen
From those men that I was really a very very good man.
In such intense atmosphere of gloom and sad
My heart cheers and I become too much glad.

"Nothing But Death"

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.