Death Is Perhaps When It Comes Poem by James McLain
Death Is Perhaps When It Comes
The hand full of seeds I left behind
planted each night where you sleep.
Wading across the wide river that winds
back around to the sea.
Across the nights barren white beach
appears one lonely tall tree.
Wafting the scent strong on the breeze
pools of light from the moon that shines down.
Knowing your name
deaths never the same all have returned
once again to the light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 9:01:22 AM # 1.0.0.1119
