Tomorrow might find us
dead, or the day or year after,
and all these thoughts would be
but ash and dust and sand,
and perhaps that tomorrow
is as real as this moment here,
and the undulating time might
just hide from us the future
valleys where they pick flowers
from our unmarked graves,
those coming people
as dead and alive as we
are, always existing, always
unborn, forgotten. Yet
I think of the murdered
children, infants dead
from bombs and cold,
and better for them to
sleep the dreamless rest.
03.03.2025
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