two

The years, like water, have become as one,

they are almost done,

then for a moment, the years are none,

once formed from brooks, here and there,

suddenly they have turned to air,

falling, falling into that somewhere.

 

The distant thunder I can always hear,

coming near, yes, coming near,

it has always been my dreaded fear,

this fear of what I cannot see,

relentlessly, my destiny,

my momentary, necesssary mortality.

The End

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