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Mourning

His life is letters of gold
Carved into black marble.
The letters are his name,
Bodiless, uncallable.

Incised into stone,
Inserted into history,
His story. Beside the letters,
Numbers he'd have known

And must have recorded
Thousands of times,
Now looking so old-
Fashioned, so 'dated'.

He lies under our feet
As they walk on, or dare
To stray, in our mouths
Breathing the nonchalant air

Of a bright lucid morning.
For we're more awake
Now, for we're dying more
Slowly. We are mourning.

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