Sorry Songs

When it ends,
Like all my poems,
My ashes
Would blow in the wind.
Drifting aimlessly-
They might meet your skin,
Wrinkled,
Like a discarded letter;
And you might never know.

Then,
All our hate would have been gone,
Maybe our love too-
If ever
They were not the same.
All you would have,
Are ashen memories.
All i would have,
Are letters on your skin…

There’s nothing to say…
No morality in the third act,
No epiphanies from the pyre.
Just this:
May life bring us peace
That death never will.

– Shakya Bose

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