Classic Poem

When you turn at the road's
last bend
you eat the distance with your eyes
as if it were an idol raised to heaven.

You can't go back,
you will wither and fall
or reach the crossroad
until some oracle appears
like an image on the wall.
Perhaps the oracle is nothing
but the fist of God
dropped open with a sign?
No,
you are leafed with worry,
devoured by stares.
Grumbling, you pierce the dust
with a curse
like Adam's rib,
and wander off
into forbidden grounds
into a cleft between
two shores —
the region of your death.
Not knowing
where you belong.
Your pallbearers are carrying
no one in your coffin.

Cain cannot die.