Only death Pablo Neruda /Donald D. Walsh (revised)

 

There are sole Memorials

Shrines ossuaries filled with relic bones,

The heart passing through an excavate gallery

Dark, Dark, Dark;

Like a shipwreck we die Concave,

Like smothering in our hearts,

Like slowly falling,

There are corpses,

Feet of sticky, cold gravestone,

Death is in the skeleton,

A pure sound,

A dog bark silenced,

Certain peals coming from,

Certain tombs,

Like teardrops or raindrops

Growing in the dampness,

At times alone, I see,

Coffins with sails

Pale corpses, like anchors weighing,

Dead-tressed females,

with Bakers White Angels

with pensive girls hitched to notaries

Stream of the demised 

A dark red-purple haze

A catacomb river,

Sail swollen by howls of death, upstream,

Swollen by the silent howls of death,

To resonance comes death,

like a shoe without foot, 

like a suit without a man,

she comes to knock,

A stoneless and fingerless

She comes a mouth to shout,

without tongue, without throat,

Yet her steps squeak,

And her dress toll, silent like a branch,

I know little, I am not well acquainted,

I can scarcely see,

but I think her song,

Has the color of moist violets,

Violets accustomed to the earth,

Because the face of death is green

And the gaze of death is limelight,

with the sharp dampness of a violet leaf,

And its dark color of exasperated winter.

But death also goes through,

The world dressed as a broom,

She licks the ground peeks for corpses

Death is in the broom

Death's tongue studying dead bodies

Death is in the cots:

In the slow mattresses, 

In the black blankets

Stretched out, 

And suddenly tremors blows,

Blows a dark sound that puffs out sheets

And there are beds sailing to a port

Where she is waiting, 

Dressed as an admiral.