Poetry

I knew not you’re in the heart of broken yoreThe trust of thy is shakenTill the end of burning pyre is taken.I can see the smoke on top of the windFloating like the stratocumulus;Those smoke does not belong to meIt all belongs to the mortal death.Oh! Son, be the tearless man to cry;Before I was burn to ashes.But my sickness won’t be last long.I am happy that thou saw my death!Has come from all angle;To grieve at my eternal leave taking.Truth of death never lie;It keeps on stretching with the streakOnly angle of death must tell you the absent.Feel the knot of thy death knell;When everything is decay for the warm to feed

Kezang Dawa