hen 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.