When I was alive
I used to be  your hope,
But why concern for a hope
That’s already deceased?

I’ll not return here,
Not anymore than a spring on a snowy mountain-top
I know not if I belong
To a generation dead and buried
Long forgotten amid the clamours
Or a generation yet to set their foot
On the stage grand and vital;
In the reflections spectral and blurred,
All I see but a face
Not remaining at the centre
But trudging like a ghost
On the margins of
Eternity and ephemeron.


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