The country where I walk rots under the feet of strangers.
Sharp winds seize the bristling grass.
Claws grab me from behind, I walk in a trap.
The landscape is like a blanket drawn over the dead.
Summer pours black thunder on the heavy seals.
Dryness floods my mouth and slowly chokes me.
The sickle pauses high in my consciousness.
I halt in flight, cast in a flash of lightning.
Time opens like the teeth of a wolf
bitten into the quivering world with the rapacity of cold.
Thirst swells slowly in my mouth like a poisoned fruit.
At the table when memories dusk over I read ruin
from the palm of my hand.