I’ll bury all my children.

I’ll bury all my children.
I’ll carry them, to death.
To linger in their stories, exhausted by the weight.
My milk is grey and bitter, but I’ll carry them each day
To their death.

 

Canta Anna Von Hausswolff en Funeral for my future children (pero bien pudo escribirlo algún poeta pensando en este país de la tragedia).