by George Freek
The generations come and go
with endless repetition,
as people travel along the road
and pass away in due time,
as spring flowers or winter snows.
It’s something we all know.
In a few hours I’ll be sitting with
another woman, drinking wine,
trying to make new memories
to forget our past.
Perhaps it’s not tragic,
but it is unspeakably sad
that your life was so short,
and that nothing ever lasts.