Burial

Category: Poetry
If on some woebegone night
A generous Christian soul
Behind an old garbage-dump, might
Drop your proud corpse in a hole,

When the chaste stars are nodding their heads
And closing their eyes to the earth,
There the spider will weave her web,
While the viper is giving birth;

You will listen the whole long year
Above your cursed bones
To wolvish howls, and then

To starving witches' moans,
Frolics of dirty old men,
Plottings of black racketeers.

Available translations:

English (Original)