Pink Lilies

Lilies crown the few square metres of dirt

A carpet of pink

The wooden box

The soil, fresh, wet, smelling like earth

2 or 3 metres below

Some feet tread carefully

Over the flowers

The little ones don’t care

Trampling on the carpet

‘I was what you are, you will be what I am.’

Some of us know it

That feeling

Of slipping away, fading into dust

Some of us don’t

Anaesthetized or sleeping

None of us can run away from it

We can delay it

It doesn’t always end in a wooden box

Or in an urn

Or in fragrant bandages





Jian Lam 9F

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