Cien

Cien

In one hundred years
Will there be a tree
A new home
Where presently rest my feet
Fish might swim
When the land retreats
Instead of the snow
Cocos and palms
Could grow
In one hundred years
The dust of me
A sprinkled star dust reminder
That here once stood
One strong
One loved
A small one
Where now stands a tree

2 thoughts on “Cien”

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