Saturday, February 9, 2008


A small flower in full bloom,
A set of well-used chairs;
A shadow hidden in the gloom,
A strand of long black hair.

A gravestone belonging to another,
A story never told;
A young boy crying for his mother,
A treasured bat, now old.

Speak we do, and cry we must;
Yet who will hear our words at last?
The passing walker to which we tell,
Or the stone-cracked wall whom we know well?

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