It doesn’t turn anymore
the worn stone
the seasons halted at winter

I remember 
when two bones, rubbed together
made people laugh 
and weep at times

now, many rest
like broken marionettes
in shallow pits
It will always be cold

The new bread
common and tasteless
is no longer made here
warm like a cat

And vacant carriages
with wheels deaf as faces
never leave the pale houses

Yet I stay a moment longer
at the table
looking at the waxed and wired skull
wondering how to answer it

The eyes, no eyes
already have begun
to reclaim