LAST SONG

Painted, not void:
my house is painted
with the vast colour
of tragedy and passion.

It will return from depths
of tears where it was carried
with its empty table,
with is ruined bed.

Kisses will flower
over the pillows.

And wrapped around bodies
the sheet will create
its immense tangle
perfumed, nocturnal.

Hatred will die down
beyond the window.

The talons will be gentle.

Grant me this hope.