The Cliff Of Suicide


When everything is bathed in colour 
And a blinding golden path 
Shines from the sky onto the sea, 
To the white shingle beach which is below you, 
Blood stains stand out every so often: red poppies. 

In your deep tomb, receive the young corpses 
Of those who are tired of living, those who can't find consolation 
In the marvel of your sunsets. 

Wings flutter among the ears of wheat 
Like the wind which ripples the sea 
And vertically over it 
There's the cliff of suicide 
On the water more blue than the sky.