To cope with this underworld
you’ve sent me, and madness,
make it a garden
for the years that age.
For the years that age,
for the griefs I’ve to live through,
the years of work coming
and the groanings in my back.
For the years that age.
Bone for that dog.
For the hell-burnt years.
A garden in the breeze
for their refugee.
Bless me with a garden
and nobody there,
a soulless place.
Garden no one steps in.
Garden no one looks in.
A laughterless garden,
a no whistling there
garden
Earless,
bless me with a garden.
Nothing has a scent there,
not a soul.
Speak: you’ve tortured enough.
A garden on its own.
But don’t come near me here or there.
Yes, he says, it’s as alone as me.
That’s your garden for me and the years
I age. That. Or your paradise?
Bless me in the years that age.
Deliver me from here.