they aren’t in a hurry, nor do they stop

the sky is flying grey above the gardens

guiding east the shadows of the storm

sometimes they come and find

sometimes they shrink

to weightless dots, soap in your eyes

to icy cracks

yet also pretty

now I recall them prettier

more seldom at the specially appointed places

authored by “the mourners”

and no, I cannot comfort you

just few were salvaged

For the original click here.

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