Praise

We praise the world in its Rilke
And elegise the world’s passing.

There is a conspiracy to forget,
Not to elegise, gloss over death.

As if Rilke had never been born,
Conspiracy believes never dead.

Rilke is mustach, wild and alive,
Never left us in our lust and love.

Never born ,a world has passed
Or is at times dead , as we pass.

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