I bring this stone,
so smooth as ebony,
so you are not alone
and in my memory.
As it once was,
when we were family.
Your grave,
a nameless place
between some lonely birch-trees
and some fern,
without a gravestone,
without grace.
You never had a chance to turn.
My hands too stiff to wave good-bye,
my memories,
now cold as ice,
my eyes – your picture in the sky,
no chance...
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