We’re look­ing for the dead
at ceme­ter­ies where they nev­er tread
in silent church­es where under mighty bells
even God him­self hard­ly ever dwells
we’re look­ing for the dead
in rooms among their clothes
in the attics in the wardrobes
where the shad­ow paint­ed like a lace
forms on the wall a cer­tain­ly known face
and the wind wheez­ing through the door
is pant­i­ng alive like a wound­ed boar
and it smells furthermore
in dreams where even when they come
it’s a bit­ter mash
full of sweet­ly trash
we’re look­ing for the dead
in a stranger behind our feet
(and per­haps under his disguise
he’ll touch us fast
and we’ll see at last
the beau­ti­ful dead eyes)
like on pictures
where there remained chained
fos­silized smiles and numb eyes
the past glow
all cement­ed moments in a row
we’re look­ing for the dead
in won­der­ful theories
of reincarnation
transubstantiation
emanation
replication
in ter­ri­ble hope of clones
in all those con­stant drones
we’re look­ing for the dead
we’re looking
we’re looking
 

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