DEATH OF A POET

In memory of Arnošt Procházka

My last trip to your room. That grey walled warren,

dust, cobwebs – tawdry visitors anew…

Your books upon the floor, your table barren,

unkempt, sad, full of dross, half tipped askew…

By your heir taken, pictures gone… Some wandering

hand prompts the cupboard’s cracked-glass wailing gape.

Your old couch, oft reclined upon while pondering,

bid to the buyer, with its crimson drape…

Much paper trampled by the trader, flaky,

who’s here to buy, and whistles, so content…

My poet friend, now your death’s truly achy

in my heart, tightened, feeling its sharp clawing…

With the divan, which slowly they’re withdrawing,

I feel my own youth carried out, life spent.