Shrouds

Breathing sorrow, vomiting hate Sulfur, bile, pus, blood, and water The ways of the earth, unbearable and cruel In shame, in irony, for real Breathing is useless and blood clots behind my eyes At the other side of the shore Witnessing Nature's mocking Slitting my throat Getting rid of my vocal cords Ripping my veins out of my wrists Eating my flesh I should extract all the existing Light So, I can portray Loss, any loss I should cease all the existing Sound So, I can speak of Grief, any grief I should compress all the existing Air So, I can portray Death, any death I should throw my own remains away In the most distant grave Without a name, without clean marbles Without symbols of any god Without a word against the sense Hidden in my cold hand Who could tell this story of a man Who lost his own mind A pile of shrouds on the chair Speak of hope Clean and firm waiting to cover a wreck What is left, from the time where This called Life I stare at my tomb, just a hole In this barren land I wear myself out I am tired. I know. I know the truth This hole, soon, I can assure anyone Will pollute the earth Like the way it should be Empty, hollow, just an open wound In this wasteland black cloths cover mirrors I am tired. I know. I know the truth This hole, soon, I can assure anyone Will pollute the earth Like the way it should be No hyacinths upon my coffin Nor lilies and oleanders No mourners will soak the soil in tears No white cloth upon my face No drops of wine over my eyes Now pain will go away No loved ones walking slowly behind Now, finally, pain will start Where even sorrow matters no more When even hate becomes my spine Mountains and Oceans as graves Pressing Fear Expelled from anything pure, hiding In my coffin I lough loud but nothing Like a noise from above where Earth decayed Concrete water on me like guilts and regrets Where even sorrow matters no more