The Poppies

the poppies weep and bloom
carrying the fragrance of your death
when -with the smile beyond the grave-
they hung the clouds from which
the drops of knowledge slipped
drop by drop drop by drop
from the four sides of the cross

into the twilights under the poplars
they came
with the food for the dogs
and the fangs for the bite
within the howling of time
a moon volcano erupted
unmarked on the galactic maps

the one with the fire white and unreal
that burned the remains of your universe
and amidst your head - there-
where all the poppies were planted
in each of the cells of your
half mortal being for the red to bloom
there-everything cried

it was only the clouds laughing
throughout the night because
first it gives the answers then
it looks for the questions
and its funny-so cruel and inhuman-
still funny

as funny as when
on the scales of paradox
the harlequine lying on his back
with his hands on his stomach
already lost for the laughter
stamps his feet on the scales
which is why
the hands of the scales shiver
between the zero and one hundred
kilograms of irony and hopelessness