The fugue of us, ah! it remains <br />so cold! <br /> <br />the fugue arises slow like a morbid <br />snake <br /> <br />the fugue detaches us from town and <br />crowd <br /> <br />and sings its lonely veil of black <br />ordering <br /> <br />no wonder, no wonder, it rises though <br />slow <br /> <br />feeds on my blood, that was sad blood, <br /> <br />the fugue, the morbid fugue, that now <br />ends <br /> <br />what with my father's birth began <br />about ninety years ago <br /> <br />for to-day my father, my poor father <br />would be round ninety <br /> <br />and with that fugue ends all us, father <br />mother son <br /> <br />the fugue of the extinct, where hope is knifed.<br /><br />Emmanuel George Cefai<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fugue-of-us-ah-it-remains/
