What a true poem perceives
cannot actually be written down
but still some vain attempt
to speak a few words of grief
is made where memory
once stood trustworthy
witness no more
how else can great truths
living on distant planets
weave pictures of all
our old weaknesses into trees
and flowers as we pass
or the animals poor
creatures we one by one
sacrifice who once
held the poem as friend
go on?
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