It’s shut. And after such a climb!
A caustic drizzle slicks the deserted funicular railway
as the lights come on below in the abandoned weekend.
The distant band’d just turning up in the life you missed.
Your beloved dead are back there
getting dressed for their garden parties.
Yours was among the first families of Purgatory.

When you return to your ancestral gardens
you hear always an orchestra distantly, carefully,
mimicking the rain, or the sobbing of your national bird.
When you enter the deserted manor
you are often met by the police, who recognize you, bow,
and torture you by weeping during their inquiries
as is the custom in your country.

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