The Poet's Grave

not one
star -
a calm, windless
evening
shriveled frozen earth, freezing
curly chrysanthemum heads
- only from afar
my beloved hill glistens
as if all the stars had come down to earth
beside the forgotten poet's grave
but I am not alone here: a few
half-burned candles and a hawthorn
branch full of red berries remain
as if asking -
soundlessly - lips not even twitching
"What do you need, my soul?"
and the answer -
like a shock of cold wind:
slicing straight through
my very heart
and your black
nineteenth century
wrought iron fence