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.