Alan Rickman reads this poem in Truely Madly Deeply

THE DEAD WOMAN (after Neruda)

My love, I shall live on when you are gone.
I hate to say it. Out there in your night
I would be silent. And there is the fight
Blacks beaten men in prison. When the sun
shines as last victory that’s not mine but ours
I must still live forgive me from your grave
For living still when rising like a wave.
Sun warms blind face. If dumb still sing dark hours.
Your death falls tatter red and yellow leaves
rain soak fire burn cold freeze. My broken feet
Stagger from death where you and I would meet.
You wanted strong unbroken one that grieves
walks on. The people march. I am among
them writing singing marching am their song.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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