suicide poem

a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
he speaks not well
better than granite
i despise my friends more than you
we break the glass whose sacred wine
high-born race
in the dark and peace of my final bed
a few more windy days
white foam flower, red flame flower
on and on
there are gains for all our losses
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue