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When Trumpets Blare
Paul E. Berube |
Dear departed, spirit free,
shadow of what use to be.
Trapped within yourself no more,
gone from whom you were before.
Pallid ashes ne'er forgot,
eyes will tear for what was naught.
Laid low down beneath the earth,
to dwell within a final dearth.
Man knows not, he can not see,
fond soul once an entity.
Borne of wordly flesh and bone,
loved in silence, walked alone.
Rush of tides shall be a sigh.
Mighty oceans may go dry.
All will know what is about,
when grains of timeless sand runs out.
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