I clutch the stillborn corpse of all my dreams.
How long have I held her? Minutes? Hours? Years?
I stroke the cold and sunken lifeless flesh;
The smell of rotting becomes a sweet caress.

The flies that swarm and bite I don’t begrudge:
Their sting is one last thing I can still feel.
When dust to dust, may I that latter be;
Do I hold on, or does she have hold of me?

All my world, how can I let her go?
The less there is, the more I hold her close.
I find familiar comfort among the bones
And, solitary, worship what was lost.

When finally I can lay her down at last,
Who will be left to help me dig the grave?