suicide poetry

before the solemn bronze saint
let us pity those who are better off than we are
one by one, like leaves from a tree
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
a thousand silent years ago
eighty years have passed, and more
as a white candle
and still they walked on
stern cold man
brief on a flying night
i wonder where you live
when a deed is done for freedom
i know not where
when the wind works against us in the dark