Song Of Death

Old Woman Census-taker,
Death the Trickster,
when you're going along,
don't you meet my baby.

Sniffing at newborns,
smelling for the milk,
find salt, find cornmeal,
don't find my milk.

Anti-Mother of the world,
People-Collector -
on the beaches and byways,
don't meet that child.

The name he was baptized,
that flower he grows with,
forget it, Rememberer.
Lose it, Death.

Let wind and salt and sand
drive you crazy, mix you up
so you can't tell
East from West,

or mother from child,
like fish in the sea.
And on the day, at the hour,
find only me.

by Gabriela Mistral

Comments (23)

Wow...... Lovely poem brother
Right from the first line, the poem is a masterpiece! Lovely poem! ! ! Even I do hope someday I too write such great poems...
Hey...I found it so free flowing...You have a stunningly clear thought process....10+....
wow! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! stunning! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! you are genius.........great poem i hope i can write like you one day...
Hi Vic, Nice write, you've turned Bangalored into one of my favourite words! Cheers, Frank
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