Friday, January 27, 2017

Peace-time

is when death settles in,
when it stalks each room
and hides, like naphthalene
balls, in their clothes. When
memories get welded to
places which become this
is where he used to sit, or
this is where he studied.
War took them but the winter
of peace-time really leaves
them behind. Peace-time,
the abacus of casualties,
peace-time, the stock taking
of shadows, peace-time, when
the season asks you to move on;
on your brows, still, the dew of his
passing, in the sky, still, the half
crescent of death, and in your
eyes, the flower growing from
his last words, his dying breath.

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