Four days ago
was my grandmother's birthday,
one hundred and seven years
since her birth, when her
grandfather's body waited burial
in their shed as she made
her first cry on a year
that had seen much crying
and mass graves, and now
the month carrying the middle name
of my grandfather, August.
Markers that like our planet
around the Sun
I go through a familiar path
through all the seasons, all the months
and years left, if any,
around and around, but the people
are not there, they have left
and there is desolation,
grand emptiness once filled
with presences, voices gone silent
and fading from memory,
as the path degrades
and spirals to the core of existence.
01.08.2025
#Verse #Poem #Poems #Poetry
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti