Ghost

I am cold and I drive myself away From a grave made of clay With yellow-colored edges, And the earth as its lid. I am cursed to accept myself... A ghost with eyes and bones, I am walking weak among the graves While crying out some words. Like a field holds a scarecrow, The cemetery holds me in its arms To drive away from the sacred graves The old women from the crosses. The priest scolds me in distress For wandering at night through the city With just my linen shirt And a candle like a thread. I am guilty of my sad night That weighs upon my non-existence... I am a ghost created from the rain That washed my grave away.