I Am The Last Poet Of The Village

I am the last poet of the village, The plank bridge is modest in its songs. I am standing for the farewell mass Of the birch trees incensing with their foliage. The candle of the waxen flesh Will burn away with a golden flame, And the moon's wooden clock Will wheeze my twelfth hour. On the blue field's track Soon an iron guest will appear. Oats, poured with the dawn, Will he reap, with a black hollow of a hand. Lifeless, in a stranger's grasp, My songs will die in your presence! But the ears of oats like horses Will mourn for their old master. The wind will take up their neighing, eternally Celebrating the mass dance. Soon, soon the wooden clock Will wheeze my twelfth hour.