But in the Dead

A poem about what time and death really are.

A key hole, and black as the night colder than the snow, an infinite number of space for a time continuous space, but to see each other's light

  It gives a voice to remind us of the times the photos in the past

  Will be the memory of the old,

  It is the nature of the door at the national

  A new life, anything, except to save me a lot of facts

  I want to live and die as before, will not go out, do not respect

  Struck in silence, no peace

  Around, but isolated