Ash | wersja ostateczna

In 1965 you poured red wine
into glasses tarnished from prolonged use.
When you woke up,
your son was not there,
twenty years later.
Ten years later
when he was back,
you didn’t ask him the reason
of his wound.
When it was your turn to go away 
fifteen years later 
he was the one who attended you so
that you could dance forever
in the wind and among Atlas Cumbres stones.

Sometimes
to live not conscious
make one live longer.