Sehem

A relic of a past era, a black shirt Shivered at the tip of the leaf, the first drop of the season A vague scratch in the mouths of those who speak I touched the soil of your grave Very cold We had sat on any given day Under the olive tree You said, "Human, one exists, one does not" Mother I'm afraid of losing myself in my palms Your voice is rising up the stairs, hitting the steps I'm late everyw...