Classic Poem

After the tears, heartfelt tears and crocodile tears, 

I sit here with mouldy bread crumbs, dill leaves and salt.
 


The plastic clock above the fridge strikes the hour

to the sound of the same old quarrelling in the street, 
 


echoes resound in the gutters like bits of truth

and madness still propels our globe like the first ache.
 


We’ve buried you the way you asked: with no stone

or wooden cross above your decaying forehead, 
 


only the simple sky, the clouds, and the old sun.

And at night the moon and the stars will comfort you
 


more faithfully than any human ever could.

Sad grand poet, I wish I could find the right words, 
 


but for the thousandth time the cold wind says it best, 

and nothing is more eloquent than its goodbye.