living on the hill
you are digging our final home
deep or shallow
you have a good eye for
your shovel is red with rust
and your hands are grazed to the bone
the stamp of the digging done
can rain wash away your beds of sorrow
can rain wash away your crusted skin
but who will dig a whole for you
will the punished ground swallow you
when you die
dragging your muddy shadow
have man debt to you
in the ground of rocks
a golden rose will grow
your smile is empty
and your blood is cold
colder than the bottom of a hole