May cherries

my fruitful branch is pruned
full of May cherries
red as blood
a crippled tree
its dried wound
black as a pit
karst abyss
unmentioned
dug by the hand of God
God's funnel
filled with bodies
already told
already sung
saddened
mourned
hatched
the wail echoes
lost
like a distant echo
Wailing
strengthens
not even to spend a night
not to dawn
common sense
that the sun does not appear
that the moon does not illuminate the darkness
days pass
like clouds
gloomy harbingers of rain
who run behind the hill
the sun does not get tired
of the rise
nor the sunset
the sickle of the moon reaps the
light beams and tie it in bundles
when full moon takes the shift
it dispels the gloom
and that wail from the outside
persistent
it doesn't stop
to insult my silence