Echo

For those who are dead
the planet does not exist.
must we assume
life on a lone planet does not  occur
but is it a dream?

Writers and poets
think they are immortal
by ink and pen.
But everything ever written
will rot as autumn leaves do.


Heat cracks the phone pole
lost voices turn to tears,
but dries in the sun.
White streaks of intense longings
a lover´s word goes unheard