When the morning was waking over the war
She put on her clothes and stepped out and she died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
She dropped where she loved on the burts pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell this street on its back she stopped a sun
And the craters of her eyes grew springroots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of her grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the spade’s ring on the cage.
O keep her bones away from that common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of her age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun’s right hand.
Dylan Thomas
