Years Tomb

Such will be for me at the end of days so drunk
the turbulent past agitates in its cage drunk
the past which with its Portolans is returning
time which replicates itself suddenly dining
on birthdays scattered around in coldness drunk
the raindrops had been dried upon trees with leaves drunk
the box of firm colour with its shell drunk
as almond pierced as almond of days drunk
what hope what hope what hope the night delivers sunk
and the past which dies which dies dies in agony
the turbulent past agitates in its cage drunk