Sometimes, Somethings, Do Last

October 2016

Sometimes, Somethings, Do Last


The songs, we sing, are not, 

to glorify war.

But, sweet words, for those that, 

sing no more.

And have no voice, save the echoes, of the wind.

The rustle, of the leaves, and the call, of a lonely lark.

Of all my words, there's some, I cannot write.

Make sure, they spell my name true, upon that stone. 

And etch me, a pretty flower, to with me lay.

To last there.



Giajl © Jim Love 

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