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Procession moves on, the shouting is over, |
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Praise to the glory of loved ones now gone. |
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Talking aloud as they sit round their tables, |
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Scattering flowers washed down by the rain. |
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Stood by the gate at the foot of the garden, |
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Watching them pass like clouds in the sky, |
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Try to cry out in the heat of the moment, |
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Possessed by a fury that burns from inside. |
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Cry like a child, though these years make me older, |
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With children my time is so wastefully spent, |
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A burden to keep, though their inner communion, |
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Accept like a curse an unlucky deal. |
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Played by the gate at the foot of the garden, |
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My view stretches out from the fence to the wall, |
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No words could explain, no actions determine, |
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Just watching the trees and the leaves as they fall. |
