“Sieve your flesh fine, Mother,

let no stone frighten her.

Eek out, by their squirming

ends, the worms that flesh out

her childish wounds. Press not

your sordid, rooted girth

on her copper-seeping

eyes. coddle her, Mother.

“Unveil to her your pale

earthen stars. Teach her to

day-dream of nightmare hues.

As she queues on brittle

banks of bones, rusted youth

writhes blue about her mouth.

Lie not heavy on her -

Like snow she lay on you.”

[After Martial V.34-5]

Mollia non rigidus caespes tegat ossa nec illi,

terra, grauis fueris: non fuit illa tibi. 

May no tough clod cover her supple bones,

not on her, Earth, don’t lie heavy on her:

she lay not heavy on you.