hen everything is bathed in colour nAnd a blinding golden path nShines from the sky onto the sea, nTo the white shingle beach which is below you, nBlood stains stand out every so often: red poppies. nnIn your deep tomb, receive the young corpses nOf those who are tired of living, those who can't find consolation nIn the marvel of your sunsets. nnWings flutter among the ears of wheat nLike the wind which ripples the sea nAnd vertically over it nThere's the cliff of suicide nOn the water more blue than the sky.