CENTRAL CEMETERY

A plain opens up before you, as you pass by the lengthy wall

of that sylvan garden, wall of the Centrálka dead.

Beat on it frantic for answers and wait for any at all,

only a startled bird… flies off… to fade far ahead.

Only a startled bird flies off far into the sky

(that hopped along the graves, piped in death’s undergrowth)

the anguish of death’s noose shudders and strangles, loath

you stand with leaden feet affixed and watch him fly.

You watch him fly away, how lightly off he’s floating

a graze along the sky that’s slowly healing, coating

above the fields and leas and waters gently rocked.

That silver groove… that little scratch… a thread… a spot.