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Poetry #218
(published March 17, 2005)
My Father In His Deathbed
by Papa Osmubal
If tonight Death comes
what would I tell him,
how would I greet him?

Silence is the language of Death—
the reason why he is scary.
Silence is overwhelming, suffocating.

If tonight Death comes
I would not say anything.
I would just look into his eyes.

Eyes possess a constant sun.
I would tonight greet Death
with my perpetual sunrise.

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The Next Poetry piece (from Issue #219):

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The Last few Poetry pieces (from Issues #217 thru #213):

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by Foster Dickson

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by Andrew Kaye

by Wayne H.W. Wolfson

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by Jonathan Hayes

by Papa Osmubal

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