I’m not leaving this planet ever.
I will always be here. My poetry
Will be read as long as the planet’s here.
You will have to leave me,
And only then, if you put my poems away.
And even then, I’ll stay.
You won’t forget what you’ve seen—
My lines of black, but green.
Now that you are getting old
With other cares, what can you say about my love that was bold?
Nothing. My poems will say it all.
My poems will treat you kindly, when you, a mere leaf, fall.
And what about these?
Will my readers go away?
These drinking coffee, and talking as they please,
Along the Champs-Elysees?