EPITAPH TO A DOOMED FLY

Three cups of coffee on a September afternoon

before I ran out of milk, brilliant sunlight

and a late survivor, a buzzing fly

from the lost world of Summer amidst a golden Autumn

flies around the room. Doesn't it

know we don't take refugees?

Your place is out there, to die

on a cold night, in the embrace of the silver

moonlight, frost covering your wings

that then only know earth.

05.09.2017