To the autopsy room,
they have taken her.
Last night, into the deep, dark night,
when the moon had set,
she desired her death.

Husband and child slept beside her.
Love was there, as there was hope.
Yet she beheld whose apparition?
Why did she wake up?
Or maybe she hadn't slept for ages.
In the dark autopsy room, she sleeps now.

She will never wake up,
into the knowledge of pain, again.
This perpetual gravity,
will no longer she persevere.
She was foretold of this tiding,
when a camel-neck silence,
came beside her window,

when the moon had set into the queer darkness.

Still, the owl is awake.

Decomposed, decrepit frog begs for the last few moments,
in the enticement of another dawn,
in an inferable warm devotion.

Intimate sky, as if some radiated existence,
possessed her thoughts,

like the impervious horripilation of a dragonfly,
at the mercy of a truant child,
struggling with its pangs of death.
After the moon had set into the unfathomable gloom,
she went to the tree with ropes in her hands.

That branch of the tree didn't protest?
Flock of glow worms didn't frolic?
That old blind owl didn't say -

“The waning moon had drifted away into the eternal water!
The owl didn't deliver these intense, fierce tidings.

This flavor of life,
the odor of baked malt in the Autumn afternoon,
felt intolerable to her.

She got her relief in the autopsy room, now.
The rancid autopsy room,
like the blood-stained lips of a rat, trampled upon.

A woman's desire - love, children, home; not everything.
Another endangered astonishment,
dwelt inside her blood vessels,
made her wearisome,
tired her - tired her.
In the autopsy room,
fatigue didn't hold its sway.

My beloved, still beautiful!
When that old waning moon,
shall be drifted away into the eternal water,
together you and I shall depart life opulence,
into the endless continuum of voidness.

.    .    .