The Poet’s Grave by Nijole Miliauskaite

not one
star –
a calm, windless
evening
shriveled frozen earth, freezing
curly chrysanthemum heads
– only from afar
my beloved hill glistens
as if all the stars had come down to earth
beside the forgotten poet’s grave
but I am not alone here: a few
half-burned candles and a hawthorn
branch full of red berries remain
as if asking –
soundlessly – lips not even twitching
“What do you need, my soul?”
and the answer –
like a shock of cold wind:
slicing straight through
my very heart
and your black
nineteenth century
wrought iron fence