The Sprinkled Glass


In appearance,
Like a strange whisper
The arrival of truth
We do not feel or hear
We do not consider
An option when alive
That it will never come
Those moments
As we move
From one day to another
Like an echo in the cold
Of a distant time

The old reminders
We too will taste,
In all its glory and formation
What all have seen
The old taste
Before and will in time
To come,
Only left,
The body
As the soul departs
Through fabrics and memories
Like sprinkled glass
Through the silk and skin
In reflection, delicate life
The beauty and its fragility!

Kashkin

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5 thoughts on “The Sprinkled Glass

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