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When everything is bathed in colour |
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And a blinding golden path |
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Shines from the sky onto the sea, |
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To the white shingle beach which is below you, |
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Blood stains stand out every so often: red poppies. |
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In your deep tomb, receive the young corpses |
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Of those who are tired of living, those who can't find consolation |
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In the marvel of your sunsets. |
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Wings flutter among the ears of wheat |
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Like the wind which ripples the sea |
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And vertically over it |
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There's the cliff of suicide |
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On the water more blue than the sky. |
