In a few dozen years,
when beating hearts subside,
your memory will fade,
dulled, diluted, subtly aged;
but never really lost,
to true listening ears,
or searching minds,
that wish to know.
Destined to fill an empty void,
your essence will spread and grow,
like the aging smell,
of dissipating perfume.
Yes your memory will spread,
loosed from the lips,
of those that walked with you,
upon sons and daughters ears.
Linger now my pretty one,
Linger a little while longer.