Thursday, April 22, 2010

Poem by Dan Goldberg

A Colorless Graveyard

I enter the dreamless land once again, stepping over buried corpses whose minds lay in absolute peace.

The once blossoming tree now stands bare with arms reaching out in all directions. Perhaps, it is reaching out to the world as if crying for help:

Don’t let me die too!

All the flowers have disappeared.

All the flags have lost their color.

All to be seen are the remnants of a harsh winter--

What a gloomy graveyard.

I flutter; Gunn’s family still surrounds him.

But poor, poor Rossiter. Eternally imprisoned in a colorless graveyard with no family near by. His stone stands tall, but gray; a lonely gravestone glaring out over the rest. The embossed word screams out: “ROSSITER.”

“What is the difference? The dead are alike in the face of death. They do not talk and perhaps do not dream.” *

Maybe I dream too much.
* Excerpt from Mahmoud Darwish’s “Funeral.”

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