366 Poems: June 29th, 2016

Dead Language

I will miss the mystery

of streets made of water

and stairs made of stone.

I will miss iron boulevards

and flags of different colors–

all the places that the world

wants to know.

Where the young leave

and the old retire,

and perhaps the mystery

is a foolish desire.

Like speaking a dead language

in a world so

alive.

We must keep the color

of those flags,

let them turn our lands

into kaleidoscopes.

We will not miss the mystery.

We may not be a part of it,

.

But we will embrace it.

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