Far away from her

Pale now her skin

against the deep black soil

wherein she rests.

The dark hairs

frame her face,

her eyes are closed in peace,

the corners of her mouth

arching down in mildest sorrow,

her children playing at her feet.

Thus I look down at her,

with burning eyes,

still leaning on the spade,

the wood, barely colder

than my hand.

Someone bumps me, in the side,

I weep, please,

may this pass me by.

When first lumps fall,

dull and much too loud,

close to her groin,

the hairs grown back,

a shiver ripples through her skin

as in a sigh.

I cover her, spade after spade,

but spare her face,

I will not let her go.

Then birds alight in silence

in distant trees,

and nowhere is a sound,

all air is still.

I turn away.

With eyes blind

to what is left of light inside of me,

they lead me far away from her.