Garde de la porte

“Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.”   –  Jean Cocteau

“Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.”   –  George Eliot


Garde de la porte

Her long thin fingers

Barely grasp the pen

She keeps the ledger


Un stylo noir

Ink blood red

Leaves its mark

On cool vellum sheets

All capital letters

She spells out each

Name clearly

No margin for error

Mother, brother, child

Eventually she writes us

All in

Sans jugement

Ou passion

She never tires

Fille de

La mort





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