when a child dies
even clouds forget the notes of a requiem and pieces of glass wound the body of earth from the inside. gentle doves bleed the darknesses of sky, to breathe ruins of air exuding ache
when a child dies
stars keep emerging each evening, fields grow timeless lavender. but the wind, it reveals their hidden sighs, filling each moment of being you still hold on to, pretending you are alive
when a child dies
fragments of moon carve unknown calligraphy on midnight trunks, deciphered by gentle shadows and forsaken lights. scriptures of relief you read but can’t feel, only stand near aspens, mute and gone
when a child dies
dusk falls on windowglass only to search for the heart of white flowers confined in a vase, waterless, holding the scent of a meadow forest that became the desert three aeons ago
when a child dies
nothing remains but memory of light


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