There are always fresh flowers in the cemetery;
Figures parade around with backpacks and cameras, as if death is the main attraction
And yet the silence brings me a strange kind of peace.
I don’t know any of the bones buried six-feet under, but one day I will;
One day there will be a tombstone with my name written on it,
The question is who will be buried underneath?
You once told me I would have time to stop loving you before the end arrived;
I didn’t believe you at the time.
Now I sit alone in the Vyšehrad Cemetery and write a eulogy to what we once were.
There is no salvation for us saint-turned-sinners,
I try to crucify you to free myself of the blame
But there is no escaping your last judgment.
Forgive me, my love,
but your holy water no longer satiates my thirst;
This is my own doing, my deadly sin, and I confess.
So as a parting gift, promise me this,
If it’s not too much to ask:
When you pass by the cemetery, will you put flowers on our grave?
Mariana Borges
