We forget how much pain there is in poetry,
lulled, we, into the dreaming
by the undulating words;
images are drawn of roses we forget
are colored by an opened vein,
tears have dripped down
drawn up from bottomless sorrow
by way of the irrigation grooved by the pen.
How sad it is to read of a tragedy
and we saw only how beautiful
were the words, how wise
the metaphors invoked.
We graverobbers: yet, what are we to do?
For a million million words
cannot properly spell
the name of one life lost,
but to say nothing: that is a second death.
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