I’m half awake.
They keep throwing dirt on me
Trying to bury me,
But I keep squirming –
Half determined to live,
Half friendly with death.
I can hear it, the scream of
Trumpets, the bleat of lambs.
It’s the fasting time, but oh
I’ve fasted from so much more
Then I was ever ready to.
Pour the wine. It’s bitter on
My tongue. The aroma of food
Turns my stomach.
Maybe I should fast forever.
Maybe the celebration
Is untimely. Why dance
When we’re all still dying?
Nothing makes sense anymore.
So bury me.
Yet –
Yet, I’m so terrible at
Making up my mind. I squirm again,
Straining my eyes to see
If I can catch sight of a happy ending.
Somewhere there’s a child dancing.
She has no fear of death;
Her raised voice makes my eyes burn.
I reach my hand down
Through the earth, past roots
And rocks and creeping creatures,
To find, with my finger tips,
The softened edge of buried paper.
Maybe, I think, half rising,
Half tugging, on this fragment
Of forgotten joy –
Maybe, it’s time
To call my Hallelujah
Back from the grave.
Oh! If only you
Could remind me how
To return to life again.
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