Listening to my three feathered sisters
magpies muttering as faint flakes
swell
cosmogenic cosmonauts
it is not history that haunts us
when roaring blades
fall into mourning air
it is said trees are our historians
life saviours
we have to accept it
because we lived
each cremation
our beloved has fallen
because we survived
once he was the apple
of mine eyes
I ask you now
return as this page
read into me
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