In Triumph

Poem By Algimantas Mackus

And death won't be won over.
Dead men don't turn back
once their elbows prop rubble,
with the north moon's north eye
to shine on the body that was.
Bones may be gathered, but not put together
like a word, letter by letter.
The soul left behind, but no soul left.
And death won't be won over.

And death won't be won over.
Women cry out for sex as for rain,
in earth turned arid and flat.
Bones glaring white dry out, down
to the size of scant summer dust.
Dust may be gathered, not enough to cover
the waist of a body crushed.
The body left over, and none of it left.
And death won't be won over.

And death won't be won over.
Nor are the men ever to come home.
Though clocks keep the beat of a pulse
beyond time, there shall be beds
set up for the night in empty rooms.
With none to return, and all gone,
the doors shut blind.
Time left behind, and no time left.
And death won't be won over.

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Dying Is Strange

The one night I got to spend enjoying spring
would have to be the one I hit the dirt,
though the dew had turned green earlier,
much greener than anything that spring.

From A Misty Autumn Morning

I never loved the earth.
I meant to leave it
to its loneliness.

In Mourning

Right at seven that morning
right then at seven a.m.
it was that morning at seven
death had to have homage shown.

Jurek

I would lift your body into the crown of a green tree
if I had a tree
greening.

Talk About The Dead Being Born

Here's one place torture broke down.
I frown and am reassured
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Gott mit uns.