The Last

The spades are digging a grave for me,
on their own because the gravediggers are crying.
And Time is getting on in crazy gallop
to you, Death.
I wonder if the silly boys
Who I have ever loved
Will throw crumbly soil on top of my grave
Or will please the jagged spades,
before offering to them new graves.
I wonder if my children will
Be able to partition the heritage
or for the sake of 3 leaky saucepans
They will start hating each other.
Will the children of the children,
of my children find the hidden messages
In my diaries and will they be able to see
my tears dropped upon to my favourite poems
which I wrote out when I was tearing to pieces,
because of nostalgia and suffering,
and because of love for my hangmen?
The spades are digging.
The catafalque is waiting for me. Let it be waiting.
I am coming.
When the gypsies begin to cry like violins
and the cemetery becomes deep in mud,
because of their tear,
and the deceased people
start singing under the marble hoods,
I will come so young and proud, and cold.
The place close to me will be free.
My pride will take a seat there
to protect my soul of friends and God.