Whatever stops is death,
and is our death
If it stops for us.
That very shrub now withering,
takes with it
Part of my present life.
In everything I saw,
part of me remained.
With all I saw that moves
I too move.
Nor does memory distinguish
What I saw from what I was...
To speak is to show too much
consideration for others.
Fish and Oscar Wilde both died
via the mouth...
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