Red Salute, Nabarun Da!

This house of words I have built

will break down weeping

after I die

Nothing so astounding about that

I’ll be wiped away from the mirror in the home

The walls will be empty of my pictures

Thinking about it

I never did like walls

Now the sky shall be my wall

On which birds will use chimney smoke

to write my name

Or the sky shall be my writing desk

the moon a cold paperweight

and stars will twinkle on a black velvet pincushion

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