My son, my executioner,
I take you in my arms,
Quiet and small and just astir
And whom my body warms.
Sweet death, small son, our instrument
Of immortality,
Your cries and hunger document
Our bodily decay.
We twenty-five and twenty-two
Who seemed to live forever
Observe enduring life in you
And start to die together.
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Robert L. Martin
casi 3 añosIs that about your legacy? Where you keep living on through generations through your son? It was very well said. I enjoy reading your poetry very much.