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
circa 5 anni

Is 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.

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