Bone

Look, look! This is my bone

Torn free of that filthy flesh

Filled with the sufferings of life

A bone washed white by rain

Tip protruding

It does not shine—

Pointlessly white

It soaks up rain

Is blown by wind

Reflects slivers of sky

While alive

This bone must have sat

In crowded cafeterias

Eaten boiled greens—

How strange that seems!

Look, look! This is my bone

Am I the one that sees? How odd ...

Does the soul remain

Return to the corpse

And dare to look?

Standing in half-dead grass

On the banks of a brook

In my hometown—is that me?

White and bare, the bone protrudes

The height of a signpost