Anguis fragilis. Slowworm.

The sand has lost all colour.

No, maybe it is the colour
Of small, sharp stones that
Make up gravel so simply.
Yes, the colour of the sharp,
Grey, cold and merciful.
Her song went unheard. She
And the sand now are intimate.
Intimate much more than one desires.
Grey, cold and so sharp that
All the breath is suddenly gone.
It took one chop, and
one more, and again, and
She had no legs, to begin with,
No way to run, only sand for
a refuge, cold, grey and so
treacherous. The spade was faster,
The eyes lost their light, the ribs
stopped in a while, the beautiful
Copper-brown body bedecked with
Grey stars, bent one last time
and was still. Sand
Consumed her blood, cold
In the first place, cold, sharp
and made with little stones
For a small grave, in
A faint hope to be heard —
Of gaining legs like her cousins,
Of having a life once, in
God who has no spade and whose
Mercy is not cold, and not
Grey, but sharp and alive,
And Waiting.
She waits now, in the sand, cut
head from tail, broken
Like a wad of twine, put
Out under the lead-coloured sky.

Bury her light. She did not see
The blade coming — only the
Trembling earth from the steps.
Bury her light. Let her transform
Into what grows and has roots,
And run free once again.
There will be no spades
In lizard heaven.

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