May cherries

May Cherries

My fruitful branch is pruned

full of May cherries

red as blood

a crippled tree

its dried-up wound

black as a pit

karst abyss

unmentioned

dug by the hand of God

God's funnel

filled with bodies

already told

already sung

saddened

mourned

keened

the wail echoes

lost

like a distant echo

Keening

strengthens

not even to spend a night

not to dawn

common sense

that the sun does not appear

that the moon does not illuminate the darkness

days pass

like clouds

grey harbingers of rain

who run behind the hill

the sun does not get tired

of the rise

nor the sunset

the sickle of the moon reaps the light beams

and tie them in bundles

when the full moon takes the shift

it dispels the gloom

and that wail from the outside

persistent

it doesn't stop

to dishonour my silence