So Long
Again the tornado is rising from the forgotten cemetery.
What will remain
except our bones?
There is this moon; witnessed the deaths of thousands of poets.
There is this room; dark and only one candle is burning
next to an old and faded photo.
Our faces quickly sink into oblivion.
And when it’s all over,
there is the creaking of our bones
down below, where only the worms can hear them.
But look up!
A little
girl is running across the lawn, and her kite
is flying
towards the sun.
Smile!
Fine poem.
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