Fragment of an End

Sunday afternoon
I am quiet, with aspiration.
I haven’t spoken for nearly forty hours.

Through the glass windows,
I hear the top of the trees rustling.
I think the leaves are getting ready to mourn me.

Soon the day becomes darker
So I get up, switch on the light.
And resolve to be worthy of the swaying tree tops.

Featured image: Silence, by Mikhail Nesterov,


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