Death is a poetry’s burning question
Morning spreads gloriously as smell.

You can be buried with watch ticking.
Please kneel down to an earth below

And put your ears to a dusty ground
You could listen to the watch ticking.

Poetry burns with the smell of death
It is flint smell as from the caveman

Before the burning could take place.
Poetry is also the worms chomping

With foul smell of rotting old bones
If you choose the earth for disposal

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