Her skin pale and eyes wrinkled,
Her shoulders curved,
Under the freight,
Of all the heavy souls
She carries along to liberate.
Angel of death, as she calls herself;
I met her today.
And my puerile self
Couldn't help but ask,
'aren't angels supposed to do good?'
'But death is not bad' she smiled.
It's the prettiest of
All the kisses you'll ever have,
Most peaceful of
All the slumbers you'll ever sleep,
Far away from the bounds
Of time and obligations,
Like a new dawn
Inevitable and ultimate.
'Take me along!'
'Not yet' she said
Then how many tunes
Do I play and hum
Before I strike the harmony?
How many roads and boulevards
Do I walk,
Before I reach the horizon?
How many crescents and quarters
Do I sleep,
Before it's finally the dawn?
'Never Enough'
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