In my sleep it rips through <br />my meagre skin <br />throws off the red bandage of the flesh <br />and goes strolling through the room <br />my monument a little incomplete <br /> <br />one can be prodigal <br />with tears and blood <br />what will endure here the longest <br />must be thoughtfully provided for <br /> <br />better (than with a priest's dry finger <br />to the rains which drip from a cloud of sand) <br />to give one's monument to the academey <br /> <br />they will prop it up in a glass display case <br />and in Latin they will pray before <br />the little altar made from an os frontalis <br /> <br />they will reckon the bones and surfaces <br />they will not forget not overlook <br /> <br />happily I will give my color of eyes <br />pattern of nails and curve of eyelids <br />I the perfectly objective <br />made from white crystals of anatomy <br /> <br />can for thoughts <br />heart cage <br />bony pile <br />and two shins <br /> <br />you my little monument not quite complete<br /><br />Zbigniew Herbert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-my-bones/
