Each one
From one’s little noose
Cranes out
Yells and shouts
Groans aloud
And grows stout
And the noose tightens
Leaving no way to creap out
Till at the end
Spent out
Becomes silent.

I am also having my turn among all.

You are a cool cemetery.
You have the sinner’s grave
You have the saint’s earth
You have all the beds
narrow as a knife;
as if a rally of tombstones to defend death.
But you can’t really postpone
the inauguration of my burial,
can you?

From the poem – Few Words to Cemetery

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