Murdered, I went, risen,
Where the murderers are,
That black ditch
Of river.
And if I come back to my only country
With a white rose on my shoulder,
What is that to you?
It is the grave
in blossom.
It is the trillium of darkness,
It is hell, it is the beginning of winter,
It is a ghost town of Etruscans
Who have no names
Any more.
It is the old loneliness.
It is.
And it is
The last time.
- James Wright