unedited

death comes over the corn fields, traveling from night
to night, from air to air, from star to star
bringing with it the scent of the dying summer blowing
dust in your eyes: death comes over the corn fields
over the white sheets sprawled across the rooms
with the white smell, with the pale touch of a woman
waiting, with the blue of his mute pain, death, death comes
over the corn fields through the eyes of a child.

A child. Simply a child. A simple child, dies through
The course of the midnight, while outside
Paths grow pines, the whole of the distance that one cannot
reach whines, and between your eyes
that are born to die and my eyes that are born to suffer
the whole of the distance that one has crossed over to live
like bread before the dead crumbles, blowing dust
of the dead in our eyes.

finally with mouth, eyes and hands smeared with blood
with words, deeds and crimes unsaid, with the shame of
one’s face and gestures reflected, deflected in a mirror
with the curling of your breath, beneath
the speechless dream of death, your birth is carefully buried

in the white of light, light of the white, of all the white
white of death, death of the white, the flock of death
the folds of death. How, how does it come? Does it come

like a midnight breeze? Does it come like the breeze of
the soul? Does it come easily like the breeze
of the soul at the gates of death? How does it come? How
does it come: this death over the cornfields
over the agonized bodies of the loved ones, over the
carelessness of the loved ones, how does it come

does it, does it come running over the dreams of
her children? How does it come
does it, does it come raining with the eyes of a woman?
Does it, does it come with the choked voice of a son
who is not a son and a daughter who is not a daughter?

How does it come, how does the death over the cornfields come
Does it, does it come over the falling skies
Over a wounded word, a word buried under the inheritance
of the dead? Or does it, does it come
like a gesture that calls for a touch, a touch that calls for
a voice and a voice that retreats
to a corner without a resonance?

What is death and what is life, in your words and your voice?
Is it an emblem that you can manipulate? Or
Is it a flag that I cannot forge any allegiance with? Or
Is it a song, umbilical song that one is born with, but
Cannot sing or cannot become a song any longer?

What is death? Or you death? You can speak of all stones, song
of all songs, rhythm of all rhythms, but can you
speak of the betrayal of the word by another word: that is you?
You: a word that I believed in. You:a word that I sustained on.
You: a word that has become you of my word. You.
How does a word, a syllable, a song of your flight, a laugh
That fluttered across your lips in another time have become
a seizure, a mutilated gaze, an amputated call
straining forever over their mute invitations?

Do you see? Did you see? Will you ever see? This death coming
Over the cornfields, death coming over the white
Sheets sprawled across the rooms that you never visit anymore?

Do you see? Did you see? Will you ever see? This death coming
Over the cornfields with frozen touch and frozen smell
move over the darkening shadows as a circular mime?

Haven’t you, haven’t you recognized, the reflection of your blood
Of your death, a tiny speck of the universe
That floats around you to become, what we call “we?” that is death?

When the song comes down, when the sky comes down
When the love of the sacrificed lambs come down
When a man wanders through the streets painted white by your death
With a knife soaked in the blood of mothers and others

what do you do when a man, simply a man, a simple man
wanders through the hearts of the streets, calling you, pleading you
Whispering to you that you are the one who made him to call
out of whispers, out of silent screams, out of long lost
Words, that are entangled as the murmurs of the murderers, under
The bridge: what do you do

Who does one call, who does one plead, who does one shout for?

Light: light of life, life of death and death of love:
there over here, in a moment of fading flicker, one sees death smile
at the corner of her eyes, at the winking eyes of a child
there; over here, a palm becomes a thatched roof for a fading lamp.
With the certainty of a peace descending over the hilltops
with the certainty of a life spreading across the horizon

death comes over the corn fields, traveling from night to night, from
air to air, from star to star bringing with it the scent of the coming
summer blowing cold breath into our burning eyes: death comes
over the corn fields, over the white sheets sprawled across the rooms
with the white smell, with the simmering touch of a woman waiting,
with the blue of his white pain, death, death comes
over the cornfields through the eyes of a child.