When everything is bathed in colour

And a blinding golden path

Shines from the sky onto the sea,

To the white shingle beach which is below you,

Blood stains stand out every so often: red poppies.



In your deep tomb, receive the young corpses

Of those who are tired of living, those who can't find consolation

In the marvel of your sunsets.



Wings flutter among the ears of wheat

Like the wind which ripples the sea

And vertically over it

There's the cliff of suicide

On the water more blue than the sky.