A small poem.


Empress of Light
Names, names, names.

The names are the first thing to go,

after the breath has gone,

and the beating of the heart.

We keep our memories longer than our names.

I still keep pictures in my mind

of my governess on some May morning,

and the morning sun behind her,

and all the tulips bobbing in the breeze.

But I have forgotten the name of my governess, and of the tulips too.

But surely, tulips don’t have names?


But I have always thought that these tulips must have had names.

They were red, and orange and red, and red and orange and yellow.

Like the embers in the nursery fire of a winter’s evening.

I remember them.

But alas, now they begin to fade over these years.

Precious fragments of my identity, blowing away like dust on the wind.

The world turns grey.


This is what we all know of death, souls lingering, perhaps.

But always moving on, sometime or another.
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