The Last One

Muscles finally relax. Mud stains still creep along his arms and heavily callused hands that built the walls and picked the fruits lie still. The animals roam in their fields, oblivious as they had always been.

And in his wooden hut the heartbeat of his mechanical clock counts down its seconds,
A steady tick that has outlived its maker.

He lies on his back, arms outstretched in welcome, eyes still but wide, searching the sky
Never knowing he was the last.

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