they all remember
their dead,
they make landmarks
of places
they've been to
they make journals
to keep forever
what happened
when they were still alive
they take pictures
preserve them
frame them and hang them in the walls of their
libraries
and living rooms
old faces, beautiful bodies
in their dresses
of their own times
and suits and
shoes,
in truth
no one likes to remember
the world ends
when one dies somehow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem