I write this verse,
this line,
living now it comes from me,
but like John Donne’s flower,
The Blossome,
the days will change from colour
to the death of winter,
and this living verse that
came from me,
from beyond me,
will shrink and fall into nothing,
and all I felt and wrote,
the life of this flower,
will be gone and I will not
be remembered.

So, why shall I write like Donne?
Why shall I write In phrases, verse,
in words that are as fragile as petals?
Because… because, for now, now in
this time of living, while I hold breath,
I shall hold a pen, and shout loudly
in the silent forest: I was here,
and I was living, and these lost
words found their way to the sky.

 

1/6/2026