It was one night.
Let's go die, mother said.
She held my hand tight.
I followed her, submissive, well linked
to the love and womb that led me
to be reborn from the pain of woman.

We walked with the whim of the wind
to the sinister quarry
across the preliminary fields of suicide
and the ancient hymn of damp grass
encouraged us to do it.

She said nothing, she was breathing heavily.
Little by little her hand softened;
it was warm and had no nails.
She stopped, and in a strange place
where death wasn't to be found then or ever,
she kissed my forehead; she begged me, forgive me,
and retracing our path under the stars
we went back home.

Translated by D. Sam Abrams