The sunshine may soothe the soil where pyres had once breathed

The rain may moisten smokes of wrath seethed

The smiles may persuade the tears of their honesty

Shunned weights may vanish in convincing levity

 

With the solitary peck, the dawn may break again

Concerns may creep into the indifference we feign

Flowers may adorn the branches where the dried were shed

But, somewhere deep, we will always be a little dead.

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