Кирил Милушев


Van Gogh

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Do we get remembered after we die?

By all the people that we leave behind,

Or is that just another beautiful lie,

That’s yet again keeping us blind.


No way to tell if you’ll be forgotten,

The only thing you can do is wait,

Until you’re taken out by your fate,

And until the memory of you becomes rotten.


Death is neither the end nor the start,

A place for those who’ve lost their track,

Those whose mind and soul are split apart,

Exactly those who will never come back.

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