Classic Poem

What are they waiting for? Aren't they going to call me?
Have they neglected me among the blades of grass,
my most guileless comrades,
all the dead of the earth?

Why don't they sound their bells?
I'm ready now to make the jump.
Could they want more cadavers
of dreams, dead from innocence?

Perhaps they require more debris
of more trickling Springs,
more dry eyes in the clouds,
more of my face wounded in the storms?

Do they want the wind's coffin
hidden in my tangled hair?
Or the stream's eager desire
dead in my poet's brain?

Do they want the taken-down sun
already consumed in my arteries?
Do they want the shadow of my shadow
left without a single star?

Hardly can I stand up to the world,
lashing itself whole against my consciousness ...

Call out my number! I don't want to wait
until even love has broken off ...
(Inseparable dream that follows me
as footprints follow my steps.)

Call out my number! Because if you don't
I will die after I am dead.