The quiet dust lies, settled in the cushions,
On the armrests, in the corners of rooms-
Dust which takes a bit of us, when it goes.
Dust containing particles of other selves
Of other times, from a past ages ago,
Of people and lives now nobody knows.
Dust has a long memory, but cannot talk
Of who and what, and where it's been;
Dust has a long reach, but cannot walk-
Except it cling, to movements of men.
Oh dust, will you speak of me when I'm gone-
Lean traces of me on the roads I've left,
For quietly I'll lie then- and make no moan-
As quietly, dust will slowly drift..
Sometimes dust is not the nuisance..Think about gold dust, not the old wrestler, and sugar dust on the dough nuts. Nice poem
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful poem Patti - reminds me, I've got some dusting to do! ! !