When everything is bathed in colour And a blinding golden path Shines from the sky onto the sea, To the white shingle beach which is below you, Blood stains stand out every so often: red poppies. In your deep tomb, receive the young corpses Of those who are tired of living, those who can't find consolation In the marvel of your sunsets. Wings flutter among the ears of wheat Like the wind which ripples the sea And vertically over it There's the cliff of suicide On the water more blue than the sky.
When everything is bathed in colour And a blinding golden path Shines from the sky onto the sea, To the white shingle beach which is below you, Blood stains stand out every so often: red poppies. In your deep tomb, receive the young corpses Of those who are tired of living, those who can't find consolation In the marvel of your sunsets. Wings flutter among the ears of wheat Like the wind which ripples the sea And vertically over it There's the cliff of suicide On the water more blue than the sky.
