The Relative Immortality of My Body


On the threshold of being sixty

I cannot but feel a weariness

A sense of uselessness, irrelevance

Where I matter but to a few

And to them, too, matter but little

Not many hearts will skip a beat

If I go missing from the earth

And what I leave behind in writing

The few that end up reading them

Will wonder what I tried to say

Only the material of my body

Will be recycling on earth, on and on.

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