Every third day
Shamash moors his boat
outside our village, to collect
those who died.
Shamash never returns empty,
but must fetch somebody: a man,
a dog, a horse, even a cat.
When villagers don't mourn,
they gather sheaves of hay, to make
figures of men or animals
and take them to the lake.
Shamash feels no difference
between a corpse and an effigy,
he clutches what we offer
and rows back to Heaven.
We had a few good years
with plenty of barley and wheat,
hardly anyone died,
and we made lots of figures.
I imagine what Heaven
must look like these days, all strewn
with straws, bright and pungent,
loosened from man and beast,
who rustle, motionless,
slowly falling apart,
as if whispering zealous prayers
in that infinite azure street.