My son, my executioner
I take you in my arms
Quiet and small and just astir
and whom my body warms
Sweet death, small son,
our instrument of immortality,
your cries and hunger document
our bodily decay.
We twenty two and twenty five,
who seemed to live forever,
observe enduring life in you
and start to die together.
~~~Donald Hall
(5 years and 3073 days ago)
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A hell of a poem, author. Up and on my way to find out more about Mr. Hall. And, oh yes, a nice image to go with it.
Howdie stranger!
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