We planted a corpse in the garden,
expecting it would grow,
we watered it with blood and sweat,
waiting for the wind to blow.
Whirling gusts of desert air
scorched our ears and eyes,
swarming dust and fleas in flight
burnt into our skies;
we cannot see into this night,
its graves are on the run,
breathless breathing is our plight,
for we are all undone.
Give back the men in long black coats
with morbid frowns and fingers,
give back the boredom and the grey
with truth that always lingers;
that corpse we planted with the rose
- how little has it given! -
its fruits are burnt, things fall apart,
our hearts from us are driven.
We planted a corpse in the garden,
expecting it would grow,
we watered it with blood and sweat.
Now we have death on show.