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.
Copyright © Vasile Serban | Year Posted 2024
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