In a grass of filled, all land with snails
I wanted to dig a massive ditch where
I leisurely could spread my old bones
And, forgetful, sleep as a shark in wave.
I hate last testament and despise tombs;
Instead of begging the world for a tear,
Living, I would rather invite the crows
To bleed all the ends of my great corpse:
Lines worm, black companions with no eyes’ sight,
See how your free and joyful death arrives;
Breathing philosophers, paintings’ sons,
Cross my destruction now with no regrets
And tell me if it’s still an act of torture
For old frame souless & dead amongst the dead.