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Tuesday, 2 June 2015

A Poem about Death

If Only

people spoke of the living
like they speak of the dead.

Just imagine:
people would go around declaring
how wonderful everyone else is;
how kind they are;
how, in spite perhaps
of outward appearances,
their hearts are made of gold.

People would cherish urns
of dandruff and nail clippings;
forgive each other almost anything;
treat each bad word as sacrilege.
Everyone would go out of their way
to attend the birthday parties
of distant relatives, declaiming it
“the right thing to do.”

Just think:
living itself would become an achievement.
The news would be a rolling dispatch
of everyone who made it through the day,

and when they died
we’d realise

that they weren’t that great anyway.