饾懍饾拏饾挀饾挄饾拤, 饾懘饾挌 饾懞饾挊饾拞饾拞饾挄 饾應饾拹饾拵饾拺饾拲饾拪饾拕饾拞
Oh, what joy to hear the cry,
The strangled plea, the sudden end.
Another soul consigned to die,
Another guest… I greet, my friend.
From afar, I counted each blow,
Once, twice, thrice he fell.
I gauged the shoulders' final bow,
How splendidly the coffin will dwell.
My fingers now caress the wood,
The polish, the wax, the subtle gleam.
A final bed, misunderstood,
No spring, no breath, no dream.
I dig while humming a gentle tune,
My spade obeys, the soil gives way.
“One metre eighty,” I whisper soon,
My tape measure does not betray.
I picture the body, quiet and bare,
Pale skin, soft, without a sound.
I’ll cleanse it with a cloth and care,
Such pleasure in the freshly found.
I dress the corpse in linen white,
I sew the fate with practiced grace.
Close the eyelids, shun the light—
This is my art, my sacred place.
The living fear the shade, the chill,
But I find solace in what they grieve.
Where others mourn, I feel the thrill,
Each burial, a sweet reprieve.
Thus I wait, content, serene,
With hammer, trowel, and faded bloom.
Another day, another scene,
Another well-dressed, silent tomb.
饾懍饾拏饾挀饾挄饾拤, 饾懘饾挌 饾懞饾挊饾拞饾拞饾挄 饾應饾拹饾拵饾拺饾拲饾拪饾拕饾拞
Oh, what joy to hear the cry,
The strangled plea, the sudden end.
Another soul consigned to die,
Another guest… I greet, my friend.
From afar, I counted each blow,
Once, twice, thrice he fell.
I gauged the shoulders' final bow,
How splendidly the coffin will dwell.
My fingers now caress the wood,
The polish, the wax, the subtle gleam.
A final bed, misunderstood,
No spring, no breath, no dream.
I dig while humming a gentle tune,
My spade obeys, the soil gives way.
“One metre eighty,” I whisper soon,
My tape measure does not betray.
I picture the body, quiet and bare,
Pale skin, soft, without a sound.
I’ll cleanse it with a cloth and care,
Such pleasure in the freshly found.
I dress the corpse in linen white,
I sew the fate with practiced grace.
Close the eyelids, shun the light—
This is my art, my sacred place.
The living fear the shade, the chill,
But I find solace in what they grieve.
Where others mourn, I feel the thrill,
Each burial, a sweet reprieve.
Thus I wait, content, serene,
With hammer, trowel, and faded bloom.
Another day, another scene,
Another well-dressed, silent tomb.
