Tin

You are dead, Tin. As dead as they are.

The beggars and the knights,
the wenches and the maidens,
the reapers and the tax collectors,
the dreamers and the lovers,
the swindlers, the thieves, the heroes,
people of theatre, pickpockets, drunkards, murderers,
the officials, the lackeys, and the soldiers.

That trudged the roads you paved for them,
the roads you paved with them,
word by word,
verse by verse.

None of them knew I love your poetry,
I did not know I love your poetry,
until I heard your Kolajna called Necklace.

What ignorance!

Kolajna is not a necklace,
a flimsy ornament hanging over thick necks,
and wobbly bosoms.

Kolajna is a medal,
earned in earnest,
touched, polished and cherished.

You are not dead, Tin. Neither are they.

Those you gave your burdens,
to carry on the roads paved with words,
as dark as the winter’s deepest night,
as bright as the summer’s shiniest coin,
as light as a breath,
as heavy as a wound.

You are not dead, Tin. Neither am I.

Tonight, in the midnight hour, when the
the murky ocean is all alone,
I will climb to the edge of a sickle moon to
hang your Kolajna,
word by word,
verse by verse,
like a golden star on the top of the snowy tree
at Christmas.

As the skies weep above me.