It Must Die

It must die.
Each bud will bloom
And in its bloom must fall.
All must die.
All magic moments
Fade from their eruption.
That nothing ever comes
Is true. The coming
Is the death.

Reality the just emerging
Slowly dropping blossoms
And this love, which
We think, will grow
Is dying,
From the first moment
Of its immaculate
Conception.

© EGB