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 d**h 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 d**h Filled by the sound of d**h which is silence d**h 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 d**h is green And the look d**h gives is green With the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf And the somber color of embittered winter But d**h also goes through the world dressed as a broom Lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies d**h is inside the broom The broom is the tongue of d**h looking for corpses It is the needle of d**h looking for thread d**h 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 d**h is waiting, dressed like an admiral