THE DEAD

The snow-covered dead
under a sad sky
pass along the avenue of pain
that never ends.

They go with the wandering forms
among the silent auras
and from dead they give the cold
to the willows and the irises.

Slowly they shine white
on the desolate road;
and they long for the daytime parties
and the loves of their lives.

When walking, the dead
search for hope;
they look only at the scythe,
their sad shapes absorbed in throught.

In the desolate night of the mists,
and in the prison, in the terror,
the distant walkers pass along
on the unending road.