Murdered, I went, risen,

Where the murderers are,

That black ditch

Of river.

And if I come back to my only country

With a white rose on my shoulder,

What is that to you?

It is the grave

In blossom.

It is the trillium of darkness,

It is hell, it is the beginning of winter,

It is a ghost town of Etruscans who have no names

Any more.

It is the old loneliness.

It is.

And it is

The last time.