Ghost

I’m cold and I drive myself away
From a grave made of clay,
With yellow-coloured edges
And the earth as its lid.

I am cursed to accept myself...
A ghost with eyes and bones
Walking weak among the dead,
Longing for the past.

Like a field holds a scarecrow,
The cemetery holds me in its arms
To drive away from the sacred graves
The old women weeping at the crosses.

The priest scolds me in distress
For wandering at night through the city
With just my linen shirt
And a candle like a thread.

I am guilty of my sad nights
That weigh upon my non-existence for
I am a ghost created by the rain
That washed my grave away.