Last night,
at your grave,
without tears and flowers,
one already spent candle
lit up in late hours.
It’s a sad sight,
casting melancholy shadows,
last night, on your grave,
one candle to its end it goes.
And I wouldn’t swear
it wasn’t stolen,
perhaps placed there
by a human shadow with soul in,
or maybe someone tragic,
a wanderer from the margins.
When I think about it,
I feel a sense of longing.
Do they wander here,
and as the last flame will be andel,
it sadly extinguishes,
the flame of a spent candle.
And it’s as if with it,
from memory, it vanished,
when the last flame of candle
ceased to be banished.
Last night,
at your grave,
without tears and flowers,
one already spent candle
lit up in late hours.
