Hollow (A Dead Poem)
Still falls the rain A veil of black extolls darkened trees, which Broken by some unseen hatred, shed their tired leaves And bend their boughs ever towards a ravenous earth of severed angel wings Among the soil, seeds bleed forth before gesticulating death And young foxes, born dead into traps, lay unmoved As though guarding the silence that surrounds And threatens to envelop all those that would listen Mute crows, grown tired of repeating yesterday's atrocities Huddle together in dark recess, sight of the dead removed Black duckling floats capsized in a small pool in the hollow And from this pool emerges faint yet tempting mist That follows upward knowingly to caress the chipped fingers Of some headless martyr's statue whose only achievement was to die soon And who could not wait to fail The iris of darkness forms fully and the long night begins Yet still, by the hollow a young man waits for his love Unseeing he believes himself unseen, he smiles At the distant tolling of some bell, and the still falling rain
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