Returning Forests

When the calling time is nearly ripe

And the mood of mankind is mellow

So none grieve when the next one goes

To their origins in a black coffin

Six feet under a slab, etched with the life

Returning forests will hide them away

By rains and humanity’s variations

To thicken with the clauses of time

Around the gravedigger’s art

Until even posterity scratches its head

When looking for humans dead

Unless the trees lose their clothes

To the baking sun’s fiercest stare

And play the part memories suppose. 

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