All is finished.
The rain penetrates my mouth.
The air, as if mad,
leaves my sunken chest,
and Love, soaked through
with tears of snow,
warms itself in my last
aortal blood.
A stenching silence settles down.
My body is laid out
but fades away,
with a pure shape drawn
by nightingales
now being filled
with depthless holes.
Who creases the shroud?
Nobody sings here,
nobody weeps in the corner,
nobody pricks the flesh,
nor terrifies the serpent.
I want a lament like a river
with sweet mists and deep shores,
losing itself in the melancholy night
without song of fishes
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.
Don't cover my face with any veils
that I may get used to the death I carry.
EPITAPH