Do the
bones of men
remember days
of brave and
daring deeds?
Do they long for
love and battle
when they rode their
noble steeds?
Do they mourn
the silent rhythm
of a strong and
beating heart?
Do they miss the
lilt of melody
and master works
of art?
Do they once recall
the clamor and the clanging
of their toil?
And the scent of
perfumed women
and the seasons
and the soil?
Do the
bones of men
remember night
and moon and sea
and star?
Do they contemplate
the faulted flesh that made them
what they are?
Do the bones remember
holding onto children, home
and wife?
Do the bones remember
anything at all of
loving life?
When we return to dust
I pray our bones will only sleep,
instead of dreaming
of the things of life
we couldn’t keep.
Brilliant, Alfred.
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Thank you, Darren. I appreciate the feedback.
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