The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Thursday, July 31, 2008


Her hair blew in the wind at the graveyard,
paying a visit to grandma resting eternally.

She skipped along the edge of her tombstone,
then kneeled silently praying, sleep peacefully.

Again, back she ran up the hill with adore,
picking yellow flowers of the serene field.

Breathlessly approached her grave once more,
laying down dandelion bouquet devotedly.

Her sweet face saddened as she turned to ask,
eyes filled with tears they rolled down a cheek.

Who sleeps in this grave mommy? I never met her,
my garrotting throat unable a single word to speak.

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