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[personal profile] aetius
We are the Dead,
he says,
We exist in the Dream,
he tells me,
Do they not say,
he asks,
   We sing no songs for the dead
   We give no gifts to the dead
   For the words that we sing
   And the gifts that we bring
   All mean but naught to the dead.


What is it like,
I ask of him,
being dead?

He says:
It is the moon,
in the water,
being broken by a rock
falling
into its glassy stillness.
We are the moon.
We are the rock.
We are the water.
We are the dead.

I had a dream,
I say to him,
And it was true:
Every path I take
draws me near to you.

He laughed, then.
We are the Dead,
He says,
Ask no more questions of us.
   All the words that you speak
   All the wisdom you seek
   Still mean but naught to the Dead.

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Aetius

December 2012

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