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On death.

Stamped: 5.1.09

a single whisper pulled
from the ranks of
collectivity
—a clutter of sounds,
harmony and cacophony—

a solitary whisper
mourned and rued
and begrudgingly torn

a lonely whisper
who contributes
barely
a diacritic
to the wide chorale

an angry tired whisper
grown hoarse in the
emphatic strain for
Darwin's fitness

the many millions hold
their hot breath for
a single whisper pulled.

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