Lilla mamma

Till mamma...

Ord kan aldrig sägas, aldrig tänkas

Smärtsamma, ensamma i dunklet de sägs

med varsamhet, med eftertanke

Kanske finns du där, vakande

Kanske hör du vad jag inte kan tänka, kan säga

Kanske lyssnar du

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,Silence the pianos and with muffled drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday restMy noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;For nothing now can ever come to any good.