There is a land in which I live
where forever twilight cools the mist that
blows down from the silent mountains.
The shadows walk here in a melancholy stupor,
their mouths moving as if muttering, but there is no sound.
Only a whisper of trees has remained.
A stone lies in the center of the lake.
A city upon stone.
A city that is the widow of the people.
A familiar chill cuts through what existence I have left.
The water is dust never to refresh:
if water is life then what is dust?
The fruits have long since died
with the rest of us.
I watch as
the sky rolls over me in a rapid perpetual cycle:
silent luminous stars,
silent shaded moon,
silent screaming storm.
I watch as centuries become as decades ,
become as years, become as months,
become as days, become as hours,
become a minutes, become as
a single second in which all is the same.
All is the same,
never to be the same again , the same as the living .
The same as we were .
"The same as we were": a whisper ,
as we fade away into the dust of death.
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