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The color of mourning

Is not black

It’s pale

Dry lips – twisted in sadness

Trembling hands

Cannot hold the pain

The color of mourning                                  

Dresses the soul

Of those who stay

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It’s almost midday

And it’s hard to see

The more light I have

The less I can see

For seeing is hiding in the dim light

Where details rest

I talk with the wind

This way I can be misunderstood

Or revealed – it depends on whom is listening

But it is nice to have my voice confused with air

Like whispers – sonorous

Trading secrets with the day that wants to mature

Into night

And then not see for the lack of light

But sense – the movement, the vibration

Of someone, or something,

That tries to become one

With the light


Kiss his forehead with gentle lips
Let him know you care
Assuring on his last night of sleep
Of his Love you are aware

Grant him that last Word
And the taste of wine
It’s been a long time He dared
Let him stand tall
And dance, and sing, and laugh

Before He closes his eyes and forgets
You were there