My reason fails me.
Man who weeps for his woman.
I do not excuse the world
for death,
but weep quietly please.
I have no place
to put your perpetual grieving.
Woman,
keep your windows covered.
The sound of your voice rattles me.
Downstairs where the fire
has gone out,
the stones of the fireplace are cold.
Have been cold for years,
but you forget his life is gone,
and I don’t want to hear
what you say to him.
Death tortures you.
World, what excuse do you have?
What can I tell the children?
When summer passes
and I place the last bloom
on the leaves.
What, mother of dust,
who turned dust into flowers,
do I do with tears?