Harvest

Come to me, my lady

you who linger in the torpor of my mind

when the last ray of fire is engulfed by the sea

and the mantle of the night is sewn in the loom of the sky

and the owls awaken from the dead trunks of winter

snapping their branches, stretched like fingers

whose flesh is being strip by ravens.

Come to me, please.

I don’t want to hear their moans anymore

these crying infants who rend this heart of darkness

because they’re drowning and cannot breathe

because their mothers are suffocating them.

I beg for you to come

and harvest my soul.

For too long I’ve been host

lost in this asylum

and my eyes whose eyelids have been torn

are weeping blood, and my cheeks are crimson

the foxholes I’ve dig with my nails

filled with bloodstain.

Am I to supplicate?

the vultures are already feasting on my body

and I’m still alive, but will not complain

because a shadow will not be disappointed.