TO THE END

before counted time

there was death

where dreams cease

like a broken branch

nevermore to leaf

 

the moon and stars

care not

 

the sun passes over

the clouds

and winds prevail

while the spirit

crosses a river

or into a light

 

those remaining

shed tears

washing out their

souls

remembering the

last wave

or the grip of the

hand

that lead to

the end of

language

and wishing


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