Life is not a poem

The dead does not need a poem

When someone or something dies, it dies

It turns into ashes but not a poem

A poem translates

A poem manipulates

A poem dictates

A poem destructs

The truth

which has become the poets' mere ideal


When I look at her photo in the funeral

I realize I don't miss her at all

Or, I don't really know her at all

And that makes me feel sad

Someone whispers in my ear

"Call her, it's your last chance."

I cannot utter a word

For we have never begun

And I wonder how this could be our last

And boom!

She perished in furious flames

On the first day we met

Hello and Goodbye, grandmother.

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