Those Classical Ones

these are the bitter pills
of our sad existence
what sadness plus bitterness
what existence is this
but these classical ones the moment
they are played
at those times through the radio sets
of our neighbors
as though the world stops revolving
and flowers from the skies
all petals fall
our bodies buried beneath them
not dead but
resurrected
our hands reach the stars
and we become so alive
like new sprouted beans
offered by all the cracks of
the dying earth

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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