En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Grave Sleeper’s Rest

I who slept... on a grave...
While of tender uncommon age.
Woke from sleep. With silent dead.
To turn mine eyes to heaven.

Tombstone lined neat ordered paths.
They stir not like living alive trees.
Moved not in brisk breath imbued breeze.
Moved not acres. Filled. Field stone piled hearts.

Avenues of possibilities hope. Buried through time.
Chimed their... lost dreams... through mine.
Memories preserved. Ghost imaged. Lives to speak.
Through impregnated. Imprints spectral. To speak.

Purpose dead love. Living requiem retro undefined.
Spoke pinnacles of stone, earth experience outlined.
Repentant city silence. Yearning. Dead so spoke.
Groaned heaven’s divine will. In hope aspiring longing.

Loom will hold your hapless lifeless hand.
Last inflicted tears, tuggingly kiss away.
Locomotive shades, will journey wander forth.
Damned questing, hopeless brighter quieter day.

Numbing shock. Grasp. Unremembered dreams.
Ghoul dark, infested revengeful scenes.
Return a. Sunlit. World possibilities. Where.
Life earth flowers plants animals air...
Breeze stone. More unreal. In contrast...
Than worm eaten, unearthly dead regret scene.

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dreams And Ghosts

the dreams
of the heart
the dreams
of the mind

change and pass
with time
throughout the span
of a lifetime

many dreams
will come and go
but some dream
like childhood

quality must be
kept and preserved
from childhood
for this is perpetual

renewal of creativity
this deep solace
sustains aspiring soul
with hope filled

love renewing life
with new dreams
to inspire to grasp
to share eternally

the hard hearted
are played out
lost broken upon
twisted memories

dreams long dead
life expired withered
dead to deep feeling
which sustains life

the dead of heart
live only in shadows
of yesterday’s hope
ghost haunting

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In The Garden

When they came for him in the garden, did they know?
When they came for him in the garden, did they know?
Did they know he was the son of god, did they know that he was lord?
Did they hear when he told peter, peter, put up your sword?
When they came for him in the garden, did they know?
When they came for him in the garden, did they know?
When he spoke to them in the city, did they hear?
When he spoke to them in the city, did they hear?
Nicodemus came at night so he wouldnt be seen by men
Saying, master, tell me why a man must be born again.
When he spoke to them in the city, did they hear?
When he spoke to them in the city, did they hear?
When he healed the blind and crippled, did they see?
When he healed the blind and crippled, did they see?
When he said, pick up your bed and walk, why must you criticize?
Same thing my father do, I can do likewise.
When he healed the blind and crippled, did they see?
When he healed the blind and crippled, did they see?
Did they speak out against him, did they dare?
Did they speak out against him, did they dare?
The multitude wanted to make him king, put a crown upon his head
Why did he slip away to a quiet place instead?
Did they speak out against him, did they dare?
Did they speak out against him, did they dare?
When he rose from the dead, did they believe?
When he rose from the dead, did they believe?
He said, all power is given to me in heaven and on earth.
Did they know right then and there what that power was worth?
When he rose from the dead, did they believe?
When he rose from the dead, did they believe?
When he rose from the dead, did they believe?
When he rose from the dead, did they believe?
He said, all power is given to me in heaven and on earth.
Did they know right then and there what that power was worth?
When he rose from the dead, did they believe?
When he rose from the dead, did they believe?

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Dead, All Dead

Memories, my memories
How long can you stay
To haunt my days
She came without a farthing
A babe without a name
So much ado about nothing
Is what shed try to say
So much ado my lover
So many games we played
Through every fleeted summer
Through every precious day
All dead all dead
All the dreams we had
And I wonder why I still live on
All dead all dead
And alone Im spared
My sweeter half instead
All dead
And gone
All dead...
All dead all dead
At the rainbows end
And still I hear her own sweet song
All dead all dead
Take me back again
You know my little friends
All dead
And gone
All dead and gone
Her ways are always with me
I wander all the while
But please you must forgive me
I am old but still a child
All dead all dead
But I should not grieve
In time it comes to everyone
All dead all dead
But in hope I breathe
Of course I dont believe
Youre dead
And gone
All dead
And gone

song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Think Of Myself As Dead

WHEN I THINK OF MYSELF AS DEAD

When I think of myself as dead
I think of what it will mean for my loved ones
I pray they will not lose heart and hope because of it-
When my father died my brother lost hope-

When I think of myself dead
I wonder about God and God�s purpose
Is there really an afterlife?
What could it mean?
Will I meet again those who have gone before me?

When I think of myself dead
I think about a body in the ground
Worms eating it, cold paining it-

When I think of myself as dead
I think about never feeling anything again-

When I think about myself as dead
I think about the work I have left behind
And whether it will mean anything to anyone
And for how long-

When I think of myself as dead
I think of all the memories that will go with me
I think about nothing and more nothing and the end of the universe-

When I think of myself as dead
I think of life going on down below
Life with all its beauty and pain
And I pray and I pray again
My loved ones will be able to manage and make their own lives still happy

When I think of myself as dead
I pray to G-d
That somehow in some way
It will not be the end for me forever.

When I think of myself as dead
I think of myself as living again somehow
In a way I cannot now know-

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hope Dieth: Hope Liveth

Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!
Live on, & labour thro’ the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead.
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!
Count o’er and o’er, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.
Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
“Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st:
“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,
Mock not our lost hope lying dead.
Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!”

poem by William Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dead Or Alive

There in the shadows, looks like a hand
Without its owner, to give it a command
Its got a purpose but I dont know what it is
Im in trouble
There in the streets, looks like a man
But something wrong that I dont understand
His eyes are open but he dont see a thing
His skin is peeling off, his bones are sticking out
Im getting scared
Oh my God (is it dead? )
Is it living? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
(is it dead? ), is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
Hiding in the cupboards, like little mice
Hiding in the frigerator, that isnt nice
Its not an animal, it dont have legs
No one else can see it
It moves so fast, corner of my eye
Look again its gone, its hiding
Wont somebody help me, doesnt anybody care?
It waits so patiently, for me to lose my guard
Im getting scared
Is it dead, is it
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead or alive
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead, is it
I remember there was a time
When dead and buried meant just that
Underneath the cold dark ground
Things stay put!
Oh them bones they make them bodies walk
Them bones, them bones
If they could only talk!
Is it dead (fade)

song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dead Hope

Hope new born one pleasant morn
Died at even;
Hope dead lives nevermore.
No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud
To weep itself away;
Or were he buried underground
To sprout some day!
But dead and gone is dead and gone
Vainly wept upon.

Nought we place above his face
To mark the spot,
But it shows a barren place
In our lot.
Hope has birth no more on earth
Morn or even;
Hope dead lives nevermore,
No, not in heaven.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Isa in Heaven

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew,
She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven! — Young.

Where is she now?
Oh! Isa! tell me where thou art?
If death has laid his hand upon thy brow,
Has he not touched my heart?
Has he not laid it in the grave with thine,
And buried all my joys?—Speak! thou art mine!

If thou were dead,
I would not ask thee to reply;
But thou art living—thy dear soul has fled
To heaven, where it can never die!
Then why not come to me? Return—return
And comfort me, for I have much to mourn!

I sigh all day!
I mourn for thee the livelong night!
And when the next night comes, thou art away,
And so is absent my delight!
Oh! as the lone dove for his absent mate,
So is my soul for thee disconsolate!

I long for death—
For any thing—to be with thee!
I did inhale, alas! thy dying breath,
That it might have some power on me
To make me what thou art!—but, thou art dead!
And I am here!—it strengthened me instead!

Joy there is none—
It went into the grave with thee!
And grief, because my spirit is alone,
Is all that comes to comfort me!
The very air I breathe is turned to sighs,
And all mine soul is melting from mine eyes!

I hear, at even,
The liquid carol of birds;
Their music makes me think of thee in heaven,
It is so much like thy sweet words.
The brooklet whispers, as it runs along,
Our first love-story with its liquid tongue.

Wake, Isa! wake!
And come back in this world again!
Oh! come down to me, for my soul's dear sake,
And cure me of this trying pain!
I would give all that earth to man can be,
If thou wert only in this world with me!

Day after day
I seek thee, but thou art not near!
I sit down on thy grave in the cold clay,
And listen for thy soul!—oh! dear!
And when some withered leaf falls from the tree,
I start as if thy soul had spoke to me!

And so it is,
And so it ever more must ever be
To him, who has been robbed of all the bliss
He ever knew, by loving thee!
For misery, in thine absence, is my wife!
What joy had been, hadst thou remained in life!

It is now even;
The birds have sung themselves to sleep;
And all the stars seem coming out of heaven,
As if to look upon me weep!—
Oh! let me not look up to thee in vain,
But come back to me in this world again!

poem by Thomas Holley Chivers (1842)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Untended

Stone dead she looked.
Only the flicker of an eye lid
Quick as the flash of a butterfly wing
Belied the fact.
Tears rolled,
Trickled slowly
As if in slow motion
down pale cheek;
A ghastly white,
Stark in the ethereal light.
Her hair turned to snow,
And she only twenty.
Lips moved in silent prayer,
A requiem for lost innocence?
From child to woman in a heart beat.
Here is bloody war, destruction.
But she is blind to the suffering
Deaf to the moans of the dying,
The shriek of bombs
And the sobs of the living.
She cannot tend to those broken bodies,
Nor comfort those lost souls.
For she is frozen,
Rigid.
And stone dead she looked.

poem by Paul Brookes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Children's Playground In The City

THIS is a place where men laid their dead,
Each with his life-tale of good or ill;
Here prayers were murmured and hot tears shed,
And passionate anguish moaned its fill.
Silent now is each voice that cried,
And the tears that were wept have all been dried
In the dust; and dust are the hearts that bled
With hopeless longing for hearts grown still.

Dead and forgotten! for Death, requiter
Of love, taught Memory how to forget!
The love that remembered them died. Grow brighter,
Oh, dim grave-garden, with dead hearts set!
Room for the small flying feet to pass,
The feet of the children over the grass!
The dead, if they knew it, would feel them lighter
Than the weight of a stone that no tears make wet.

We must die too, and the grief that will live
Must die as surely--death comes to all;
But you who come after--let Nature give
To our graves her tears, to our dust her pall:
Let her hide us away in her cold broad breast,
Let us be forgotten, and be at rest,
And over our heads let the great world strive,
And the children's voices carol and call.

If your heart on the flower of remembrance is set,
There is one way to pluck it--and only one:
Dare you ask your country not to forget
A name that needs to be graved on stone?
By grief, strife, sacrifice, scorn of fame,
You may grave on the people's hearts your name,
Or your name may die, and your soul live yet
In the cause you died for--the work you have done.

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death of the undertaker

Darkness prevail as the wolf in the yonder it wails,
the loss of a soul to those alive unknown,
his tools locked back in the shed no one around for tears to shed,
the big guy with his big face be fell,
there is no one to take his reins,
what he gave and what he ment no one took time to take details,
the grounds he ones strolled and to some it seemed his home,
there emptiness will be known to all living and dead souls,
death of the undertaker whose gonna set his tombstone,

the mood seems dull the moon is shy to the sun,
the loss of this big man who never sired a son,
he never had time to have life he lived his life for those who lost theirs,
the grave aint dug the ground still untouched,
it takes his loss of breathe for us to learn,
the death of the undertaker whose gonna set his tombstone,

all that knew him more are six feet under,
all the living beings stand on ground and just wonder,
it takes a strong man alot of love and honour,
to be like this one who is dead and put asunder,
the living will get to know the dead man was important to us all,
for its death of the undertaker whose gonna put up his tomb stone,

poem by Kennedy Musyoka
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Stone

"And will you cut a stone for him,
To set above his head?
And will you cut a stone for him--
A stone for him?" she said.

Three days before, a splintered rock
Had struck her lover dead--
Had struck him in the quarry dead,
Where, careless of a warning call,
He loitered, while the shot was fired--
A lively stripling, brave and tall,
And sure of all his heart desired . . .
A flash, a shock,
A rumbling fall . . .
And, broken 'neath the broken rock,
A lifeless heap, with face of clay,
And still as any stone he lay,
With eyes that saw the end of all.

I went to break the news to her:
And I could hear my own heart beat
With dread of what my lips might say;
But some poor fool had sped before;
And, flinging wide her father's door,
Had blurted out the news to her,
Had struck her lover dead for her,
Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,
Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
And dropped it at her feet:
Then hurried on his witless way,
Scarce knowing she had heard.

And when I came, she stood alone--
A woman, turned to stone:
And, though no word at all she said,
I knew that all was known.

Because her heart was dead,
She did not sigh nor moan.
His mother wept:
She could not weep.
Her lover slept:
She could not sleep.
Three days, three nights,
She did not stir:
Three days, three nights,
Were one to her,
Who never closed her eyes
From sunset to sunrise,
From dawn to evenfall--
Her tearless, staring eyes,
That, seeing naught, saw all.

The fourth night when I came from work,
I found her at my door.
"And will you cut a stone for him?"
She said: and spoke no more:
But followed me, as I went in,
And sank upon a chair;
And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
With still, unseeing stare.
And, as she waited patiently,
I could not bear to feel
Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
And curdled the warm blood in me,
Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
And cut my marrow like cold steel.

And so I rose and sought a stone;
And cut it smooth and square:
And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
Beside me, in her chair.
Night after night, by candlelight,
I cut her lover's name:
Night after night, so still and white,
And like a ghost she came;
And sat beside me, in her chair,
And watched with eyes aflame.

She eyed each stroke,
And hardly stirred:
she never spoke
A single word:
And not a sound or murmur broke
The quiet, save the mallet stroke.

With still eyes ever on my hands,
With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
My wincing, overwearied hands,
She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
And silent, indrawn breath:
And every stroke my chisel cut,
Death cut still deeper in her heart:
The two of us were chiselling,
Together, I and Death.

And when at length my job was done,
And I had laid the mallet by,
As if, at last, her peace were won,
She breathed his name, and, with a sigh,
Passed slowly through the open door:
And never crossed my threshold more.

Next night I laboured late, alone,
To cut her name upon the stone.

poem by Wilfred Wilson Gibson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When Earth Quaked

Earth uncovered
Two hundred thousand dead
A woman groaned
Stone slabs crushed her head
These are the times
When God weeps

When the earth quaked
I heard His steps
In my pain
I am filled with anger
My blood curls
As I ponder
How many lives slip
In this quake's blunder
This is how earth rage

I am thankful
For the hands He sent
The press
People from every corner
Friends I never knew
This is how you know
He never sleeps
Many dead
But many spared

So I am not mad
New lives conceived
Still lives to be lived
Two hundred thousand dead
But millions breathe

poem by Buxton Shippy
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Over The Dead Body

Don’t fight over the dead body
Grudge and ego of people left behind
Could raise the worst world war
Don’t scared over the dead body
Silence and stillness of living human
Is more frightening than the ghost
Don’t keep mourning over the dead body
Sadness and lost of the one we love
Will be replaced by forever peace
Don’t worship over the dead body
Dreams could only be real and achieved
If we open our eyes to the world
Don’t disrespect over the dead body
It once belonged to precious life
Though the evidence corpse severely decayed

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Precision

God spoke once in the dark: dead sound
in the dead silence. I turned
in my sleep.
      I slept and sank away.
Then breath by breath I rose
a rigid skeleton
of thought spread over all the
night maintained by faith alone afraid
to waken, nay, afraid to stir
in sleep.

       ;I, face to face
with my own image.

       ;Mine, Rock, thought, and
rock. Concrete the flesh - it lay
within me, turned, cold
in the living sheets.

Suspended on cold iron, branded on air.

poem by Yvor Winters
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Silence Of The Damned

Can your hear the silence.
something isn't right.
dead is the night.
who turn out the lights.

then they converge upon me like vulture.
a breeze of wind blows and
bring the chills right down to my very bones.
I know I'm done for but don't even care
cause its not my nightmare but yours.
twisted and turned. living on dead memories.
eating upon them so slowly.

Can you hear the silence.
something isn't right. dead is the night.
Who turned off the lights.
who is it this time.
again they converge.
but this isn't my nightmare.
its yours. watch in despair.
suck in your last bit of air.
no life left for me.
giving up and letting the leeches feed.
for everyone has their needs.
everyone needs to bleed.
and this time its you destiny.

Can you hear the silence.
something isn't right.
dead is the night.
who turned of the light.
who is it this time.
just remember this is not my nightmare but your.
you open the door welcome them in.
so now you must try to fend hyenas off if you can.
if not welcome to the damned.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We Are Alive In The Moment Of Death

We are the nocturnal nightmares of fear induced
We are fear by which hope is reduced
We are the dead and the living the same
We are the board when your life is the game
We are as children hung from a rope
We are as children in fear of lost hope
We are the dead and the living the same
We are the board when your life is the game.
We are the silence of all that is night
We are the shadows scared of the light
We are the dead and the living the same
We are the parasite worms in your brain.
We are the killers of true passion in love
We are the angels of Hell’s mansion above
We are the wings upon which devils may fly
We are the fear and the tears that you cry
We are the dead and the living the same
We are the parasite worms in your brain.
We are the moon as we are the sun
We are the end and the story begun
We are the dead and the living the same
We are the board when your life is the game.
We are the children who beat you at school
We are the teachers that deem you a fool
We are the rotting as we are the fresh
We are alive in the moment of death.

poem by David Lacey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Another Way

I lay in silence, dead. A woman came
And laid a rose upon my breast, and said,
'May God be merciful.' She spoke my name,
And added, 'It is strange to think him dead.

'He loved me well enough, but 't was his way
To speak it lightly.' Then, beneath her breath:
'Besides' -I knew what further she would say,
But then a footfall broke my dream of death.

To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose
Upon her breast, and speak her name, and deem
It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows
I had more pleasure in the other dream.

poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dead To The Living

Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.

IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
For it seemed so hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of my living lips,
And be side by side with the dead--
Not side by side with us who had loved,
But with these who had never seen
The grace of the smile, the gold of the hair,
And the eyes of my baby-queen.
Yet with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,

She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake. . . .
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the spring's self stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by her side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved!

And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours,
And knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!

Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
'We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night--
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face--
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace,
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?'

'My world while I may,' I cried; 'but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?'
'We too are a part of the coming light,'
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me--
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the face that I always see.

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lelek To Me Forvever / Lelek Meni Zauvijek

Who took away from me, my son
To mourn above your grave, my son
To go below with you, my son
To reach the sky with a tear, my son
To spill a cloud from my breasts, my son
To open the heaven's door with a cry, my son
For you a heaven to enter, my son
To curse with a curse
To burn with a thunder, my son
I swear with a thunder in the wing of rain, my son
Made of my milk from my breasts, my son
Lelek lelek to me forever, my son
Lelek to me forever

Cut from breasts with empty hands I stand, my son
In drops I pour in clouds I'm hidden, my son
With bread in my mouth a bitter piece, my son
A cradle rocking in a grave, my son
Feed the earth with earth a grian of my pain, my son
Armfuls of sobs on fire to burn, my son
May the dawn freeze and outbreak halt, my son
Lelek lelek to me forever, my son
Lelek to me forever

I let my hair loose, my son
I tore my plaits, my son
Better to be in your grave, my son
Than to sleep with a stone on my chest, my son
Lelek lelek to me forever, my son
Lelek to me forever

Oh why did I deliver you at all, my son
Under this ruthless sky, my son
Your eyes dead to see, my son
Your hands dead to cross, my son
Your hair dead to caress, my son
Your cheek cold to kiss, my son
The sky will break from my pain, my son
The earth will open from my pain, my son
Swallow everything living in pain, my son
Into the black earth with my pain, my son
Lelek lelek to me forever, my son
Lelek to me forever

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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