Dead from us

We do not know it when we lie dead in the grass

As  spring breeze would gently play with our hair.

Others do not know that they are dead from us

Though they are alive, up and about on their feet.

The fly on our flowers is perhaps alive on us too

When it would buzz about us as if we are alive

When our ears are now bright  yellow marigolds.

The fly is blissfully unaware that it is dead from us.

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