Can the beginning tell the story of the end
without knowing what's on each page hence;
that's the attempt that was made at the gate
of the cemetery overlooking the city.
The street names were well represented among
the sleeping many, obelisks and pyramids
said "I wasn't ready to leave yet,
and please do not forget that I was alive".
You won't wake up at the top of the hill
where on clear days, your progeny see
mountains over the sound into which
you dipped your hopes and economy.
Generations are threads in clothing that you
may have never worn, depending on how
you told the story of who are we and what
does it mean to be whatever I am.
Looking back, ahead, below, there is an
evaluation the lonely mailman is tempted to:
what was your address, did you reply
to all of your letters promptly, politely.
Roman Ryan 