On Your Grave

I am stretched on your grave and would like there forever
If your hands were in mine I am sure we'd not sever
My apple tree, my brightness, 'tis time we were together
For I smell of the earth, and am worn by the weather

From a translation of the Irish poem, Tâim Shânte ar do Thuama

Drawn on heavy black paper (8.27 in x 11.69 in), the lettering is in white tempera, and the illustrations in blues, green, white, grey, and browns.