I know, you don’t have to tell me
the dead aren’t dead until we have forgotten them.
Under a most priceless morsel of sky my love
dwells, solemnly, in that howling graveyard.
But this graveyard is not a graveyard.
These tombs are not lifeless, sad repositories.
They are the fashion shop windows
where the mannequins have grimaced for eternity,
showing how to die is an awesome adventure.
There lies my love – so young, so calm.
I now sit there with a spider tattoo, cigarette in mouth,
a cluster of souvenirs round the wrist, guarding it.
And these mannequins do not frighten
me as I do not aspire to be one of them.
People say I’m mad. I can’t care when I deceived
the one who loved me and she killed herself.
As soon as she died I started living for her.
I’ll now see her in the faithful moon.
I’ll now count tears that tell stories of silence.