All the words you wrote me are now dead
and almost buried in the sand next to the cats
the dogs, two hamsters and a parrot.
At the deathbed of your written words I cried
but now and then a bit of life came back to them,
in which I thought they asked me to forgive you.
Now soil is spread above them, they can rot.
I think I’ll skip the mourning part for good,
it’s best forgotten how you wrote me into love.
I have inherited their images of you,
it was their will that I must always know
your words were true once. And I do.