A true writer never dies
whether in his truth or in his lies
Whether melancholy or blithe

His words will speak perpetually
through a reader's eyes
Each word ascends from the pages gracefully
And there is no need for goodbyes

With his readers now breathing his breath
in his dying, there is no death

With the blackened night,
the marksmen take sight.

No time for regret, no time for glory
this is a soldier's untold story.

Hidden in the slithering shade,
the final stage of this cascade.

They are trained without fear,
creeping closer at the front, the sides and rear.

Shots are fired, many fall,
Only one remains, he stands tall.

Three to the back, one to the head,
he falls to the ground, and was already dead.

He was unarmed with white in his fist,
a flag of purity, it was hard to miss.

Now stained with the blood of the dead,
The marksmen were silent and began to dread.

Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made...
A pause of silence for the ones who stayed.

It's summertime. The saxophone  jazz
sounds are pirouettetting the waves
to find their own balance. It's a mauve

inner dance in almost everything around.
More exactly, the melodious movable
sounds become soundable movement

needing a reverberation time to dissipate  
the energy. The movement releases its  own
purity to become simple fecundity. The pulsed

sound waves are also old memories  lost in the
natural green. The saxophone  looks  much
more like a Tahitian prince dancing his love

on the sand. The singing mauve sea waves
have a sadness taste at sunset. The last one
is a watery mermaid and he embraces her

while searching the high. The sounds need
touch and life. They need to dematerialize
and to disappear into the universe. The

saxophone  remains a solitaire keeping
safe his evanescent  hermetic equilibrium.