A Son

My son was killed while laughing at some jest, I would
I knew
What it was and it might serve me in a time when jests
are few.

by Rudyard Kipling

Comments (7)

He is burning inside and no one knows how much he is suffering. Only Rilke can write like this.
why did you write this
Dis poem is the meaning of life. Thank you wizard.
You spelled nourishing wrong. LOL
Awesome and very bold write. Thanks for sharing it here.
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