It is the same field, but the scents have changed;

Now musty sulphur and tangy blood hang on the air.

I am cold,

Even though it is a hot day at the end of July,

And the wheat is waving, almost ripe;

Yellow ochre with a tinge of green.

Emerald, I would use,

If I were to paint it again,

(Although Sap Green would be more accurate).

I hope my painting days are over.

I hope my days are over.

The crows all left with the pistol shot,

Save one who watches carefully.

Is she here to accompany me

On my final journey?

Or just eyeing up my innards

For a tasty meal.

I do not care.

All I can think is:

Why am I still here?

Did I miss my heart?

How could I have missed my heart when it takes up all of me?

This useless, broken heart which thrums

With the constant hum of sadness,

Blocking my chest and my throat

So nothing else can circulate.

To my right, two feet away, lies the gun.

The hand that held it moments before

Now holds my chest, sticky with blood.

The sickness in my stomach confuses me;

Is it fear, or excitement, or pain?

It is the same feeling one gets

Waiting for Christmas,

Or the longed-for visit from a lover.

I cannot tell if I am happy or sad.

Mostly, I am tired;

Will I have to make my way home across the fields,

Or can I die here?

My poor brother.

The sun will set soon.

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