Thought of us as always beautiful. You and I
Before the skies first burnt our eyes,
Back when in our minds were no present lies:
Every previous time.
A present, one of a kind, has been
How then it was thought we'd never die.
These bodies, rotting, would feel alive.
An extra chance, additional hook in line,
Would come, land, through the book of sire.
Father, who art thou in remembrance, choir,
For the hymns have failed to freeze fire?
I stare at my hands,
As a student suggests their shake never ends.
What a weird thing is this, in the end.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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