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Funeral

He bequeathed his soul…to horses' foreheads
His feet…to a dance that makes the earth want to
Be green
His voice…to the cockerels of morning
His little ensnaring toys… to the old men
His hands, with the cold dignity of wisdom, …to
The reckless playfulness of childhood
His hart…to a woman who stopped him in his
Tracks when she loved him
She said: don't be domestic, like pots and; pans

And departed
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Saturday, November 1, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: death
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Claudge Ben-at 01 November 2014

Great majestical way of poem. I was stunned when the coffin was empty. Hold the grudge.

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