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