‘Aujourd’hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier. Je ne sais pas.’
I read the line was confused,
wondered on the broken intent
of a child indifferent
in many leaving days past and used.
Now when she is gone before the sun could shine,
From before the on-looker and outsider of a son,
When everyday seems today that are neither his nor mine
I break when I read the words again and again.
Days that are dead are dying to come alive,
Yesterday continues to be today.
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