Poem

The Open Grave

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My mother made my need,
my father my conscience.
De mortius nil nisi bonum.

Therefore it will cost me
bitterly to lie,
to prostrate myself
at the edge of a grave.

I say to the earth
be kind to my mother,
now and later.
Save, with your coldness,
the beauty we all envied.

I became an old woman.
I welcomed the dark
I used so to fear.
De mortius nil nisi bonum.

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