The mud mingles with the remains of spring
it is warmer, here on the side of your heart
this, my dear, is spring forgotten but donated to life
a thought left, not missed, not borrowed
I read about guys who died, with them, fell an empire
I am reading about a girl who smelt like rubble
who didn't know how to use another tongue
to save her life, another feature
maybe a newer name, different eyes
I am writing about this feeling that permeates me:
the tear you drop on the flower's roots
after you realize it has already died.
No comments:
Post a Comment