Wriggling Souls

I will show you oozing droplets of blood in a fistful of wriggling souls.

Come under this pillaged tree, I will show you a dying flower, exhausted and exhaling, death before and after

Walls of buried bodies, sighs of sobbing nights, 

Death in the morning, death in the evening rising to meet bruising souls.

I will show you death in the dying fall, 

The ending of centuries. 

Here is the flowery girl with twenty wounds in the white soul, and here is the Mother, who is still and devoid of life, 

And here is the life-gnawing machine, feeding the newly-blossomed flowers of the spring season...

Life is empty, death carries the corpse of the day, 

The evening is misty and full of pains, forbidden souls, forbearing and feverish. 

I do not find shelter underneath the blast-beruffled tree.

Savoury death by virulent fire.

I find a heap of dead flowers, crestfallen in a stagnant pool.