Kasimir

before the fires

i saw them, elder and younger,

standing before skuld’s bier

as if to ponder the weaving

cast-off, the last thread snipped

 

skuld sleeping, whose hand

held the shears? who is weeping?

I saw them, taking their measure

of her death shroud, every last

thread where it had always been

 

was always meant to be.

every strand leads us here.

every strand bears in itself

the memory of the knife

 

recoils with the sharp

intuition of the parting

 

i dreamed last night.

i watched you drown in roses

buried one by one in blood-red

thorns and thought:

 

this is right. love lies bleeding.

love carries in itself the seeds

of an ending.

 

i dreamed you were drowning

in roses, and then the roses

were burning, every last

one of them. you returned

to fire

 

as i must imagine

even the distant stars, now cold,

still burning.