Thrust forth into heaven one is delighted
to find what one has already lost.
Our minds have become so barren,
inhabitants are demons so wrought.
What to say is perhaps the hardest part,
Throats parched as soon as one has to depart.
Ours is not a new sorrow,
For even the saints of the pantheon,
the kindred men that "suffered" bliss,
The poltergeists that wreaked
a pandemonium are all now amiss.
Like how "la dame sans merci" shed some
holy drops when her beloved breathed his last,
Like how a mother will imitate
an infant when a son perishes at war.
To leave is to uphold a mortal's
imprecation that soothsayers have come to construe
As natural as the cascading of the ocean blue.