here are the tears of world for you; be good and let them open you like a heavy wooden chest creaky in the way it’s made to screech louder and louder with the cries our the vulnerable

I see a golden bird ready to take to the skies. The sun is high, and the leaves are becoming golden. I wish I could congratulate you, but a good wish is all the end of summer’s breeze  can carry. A voice is too heavy, and a plane too slow. good on you and your gilded heart that uncoiled like feathered serpent towards the sky

Where is the steel wire brush that scapes at the red rust like a doe silently drinking water, or still quieter flowers that sway in the pondering light of another city, with another language covered by the mortar of another, where people built cities too. Who is still up in Glasgow staring at the moon? The river Clyde is below me, and the seagulls dance as if they were drunk

El arco de las puertas parroquiales es redondo, y el resplandor que emiten es un símbolo apropiado de un umbral, de lo que es cruzar de la vida a la muerte. Los asistentes al funeral se reúnen y caminan detrás del coche fúnebre bajo la sombría lluvia de sentimiento y las frías gotas de un augusto aguacero. Oigo a mi madre exhalar, con el rostro enrojecido por un manto de tristeza que le hace inclinar la cabeza. Alguien insustituible ha muerto; eso es lo que interpreto del canto del pájaro en este día (y de la mirada de mi madre hacia abajo).

The arch of the parish doors is round, and the glow they emit
is a befitting symbol of a threshold, of what it is to cross from life back to death. The funeral attendees gather and walk behind the hearse under the gloomy rain of sentiment and cold droplets of an august downpour. I hear my mother exhale, her face reddened by a cloak of head-tilting sorrow. someone who cannot be replaced has died that is what I make of the bird's chirping on this day ( and of mother's downward gaze.)

My heart says yes/ pour into me/the longest night/ within my *****/ becomes a morning glory planted/at the foot of a hill / even when moths descends/ I sit/ fingers touching the grass/ under the sun/ the soul too is radiant/  and in all heavenly bodies/ there is bright/ just as there dim lamps at bed sides/

this is how you take land, you **** its people and run pr
you tell them "they do not starve" when most of the bowls are empty