When evening appears
A blue countenance softly leaves you.
A small bird sings in the tamarind tree.
A gentle monk
Folds the deceased hands.
A white angel haunts Mary.
A nocturnal wreath
Of violets, corn and purple grapes
Is the year of the beholder.
The graves of the dead open
By your feet
When you lay the forehead in silver hands.
Silently the autumn moon
Dwells upon your mouth,
Dark song drunk with poppy juice;
That quietly sounds in yellowed stones.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt