wooden bed (rewritten) — Short Prose

~

I know some fields
in which the poppies smile
when blonde sunsets play classical guitar
I know the coffee shop in which you stop
the gypsy lady who foretold our luck

I love you
and I’m sorry that you fell in love with me…
now please listen,
I do have to go
remember our waterfall we liked so much
don’t sell the wooden bed in which we first made love
the dress embroidered by my mother’s hands
save the letters that my father wrote before he died
and do not cry

I’m rushing
guards are coming
my wrists will be soon stamped
yours forever,
from a concentration camp

Via: wooden bed (rewritten) #poem #poetry — Short Prose

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