Saturday, December 02, 2017
Ernest Hemingway
It was almost five decades ago,
Just before your 62nd birthday
That you played with your gun,
To write the end of your life.
Blessed with words by the muses,
You stood before their altar,
Writing and tearing out pages,
Till the best words did emerge.
Your life is a curious tale,
For every lover of your words,
Who wander upon your books,
Never to leave them again.
You did not wait for the fall,
To turn the green leaves yellow,
Only made the morning news flash,
With scattered bones and brains.
Your love for hills, the blue skies,
And words will remain forever.
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