20.37

First lovers do die.

 

They die every day.

Time; fire touching clay.

 

Each recollection,

Fails to bring to vision

Any sort of authentic

Feeling of affection.

 

That feeling, exactly

That, died long ago.

Dying down slowly, like

Falling flakes of snow.

 

They’re dead,

But they live on.

 

Walking to and fro;

Distant shades of

What is no more.

 

Twenty years,

And maybe more.

 

First lovers die,

Just like any other

Thing that lives.

 

Sooner or later,

They have to

Say goodbye.

 

 

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