|asabicoc (asabicoc) wrote,|
@ 2012-04-11 14:08:00
|Entry tags:||death poem, death poems|
Two or three minutes, two or three hours
What they mean in our lives?
Not much, but it counted as time.
But minutes from gold and sublime hours.
If we would only use them once in a while
to make someone happy, make someone smile.
One minute it dry up the tears of a child.
An hour it fully problems for years.
A few minutes of my time
they revive a desperate end somewhere,
and I bring a friend