The Death of Columbine

WHITE breast beaten in sea waves,

Hair tangled in foam,

Lonely sky,

Desolate horizon,

Pale and shining clouds:

All this desolate and shining sea is no place for you,

My dead Columbine.

And the waves will bite your breast;

And the wind that does not know death from life

Will leap upon you and leer into your eyes

And suck at your dead lips.

Oh, my little Columbine,

You go farther and farther away from me,

Out where there are no ships

And the solemn clouds

Soar across the somber horizon.