Little Dead Girl in the Ground
You had barely been here when you left,
the sum-total of your existence
punctuated by a dash
in between two anonymous dates
so far buried under elapsed years.
What unnamed assumption lies
within the mind of a living man
that causes my imagination to picture you?
Is it your ghost
that makes me think you were beautiful
during your last year of life?
You were sixteen
and I was someone else.
(but I think I knew you)
All that’s left of you—
a collection of bone sticks and a weathered stone,
nobody remembers you anymore
When your lungs still moved
a century past,
the matter that makes me
was still as yet in other forms,
but yet it would converge
to think of you one day.
In all directions it will move again
until I too am forgotten.
Another hundred years
will come to pass
and no one left alive
will remember either of us,
our obscurity then our common trait.
Physics does not allow us to remain
forever my dear.
We must cease to exist
in everyone’s eyes.
The ending in all things is as important as the beginning