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Cemetery
What a contrast with your hurry
walking by the graves, cutting flower stalks,
pouring water in the pots, attending to
stone, earth and the faces of memory, surrounded
by the cypresses' severe green in a wind
full of rain. You were late, yes, and in a hurry,
you had still phone calls to make, files to check
but were trying all the same, in this place, to be
slow and accurate thinking about the shape
and colours of the flowers, if she and he
would really have liked them, you wanted
the slow words in your mind to reach them
and at least in these minutes find out the pace
of gravel and sky and the swollen clouds hovering
like cheeks in the wind, far from any hurry
in a rhythm well inside and well beyond
your frantic time.
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