A thorn holds me tight
Stopping me from forgetting
The shirt of the dead
In the body of words
The trees of the way
Ghosts who don’t come back
To eat of the night
A branch of bramble
Death becomes a garden
I thought you were a clearing
Here you are in between intertwined branches
In the great sorrow of death
Our soon-to-be mother
The birds of lies
Among the dead
Of the hungry earth.
As tremble the word, so too tremble
The sound
And like birds in a foreign land
On the way off they go, walking with the dead.
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