An oak will grow out of me.
It will sprout from my eyesight.
And start the way up through the canopy.
It will overhang the mound and make a shade.
The beam of the sun's rays through the cloud and canopy,
will sink to me, and spilled on the damp moss.
I'll be there, and I will not exist anymore.
In remembrance, it will be mentioned sometimes that I once existed,
moody and rigid.
Angry at a world not made for quitters.
In late autumn, field mice will revive me,
playing hide and seek in a pile of leaves.
I will finally shut up, and no one will ask me why.
13 maggio 2024
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My dear verses
di Nastasimir Franovic
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