Dark Poem


We will all die,

everyone that we have looked at,

facing or sideways,

touched or conversed with or forgotten.

We will die one by one,


of this great impossible that is death.

The black color of my dog will die too,

the white color of your voice,

the hollow color of this day.

And meanwhile

we will do one thing or another,

no longer so frankly,

but what difference will it make what we do?

Maybe it would be all the same

if my dog were white,

if my voice were black,

or if this day dyed us god-color.

Or maybe it would not be the same,

and there the question has scarcely begun.

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