Roses are carried and wept over. When petals are withered they mourn. Roses rest when their stems are worn; They are carried by black carriages horse drawn. Of the soil they were made, to the soil they return; Sometimes they are placed in wooden boxes and burned, Or wrapped in white linen, then given to the vastness Where violent winds blow, and restless seas churn.
On that day under blue skies Their eyes were bright, and the children smiled. Arms outstretched to the side, They ran and took off, Flying for the first time; And in those precious moments They became gods, If only for a little while.
Of eyes that cry; Of cloudy skies; Of last breaths; Of the stillness of death; Of tears that permeate black veils; Of rosaries clutched with a deep inhale; Of the weary who sojourn; Of mothers of slain sons who mourn; Of the lament of winter breaths; Of tender kisses while she slept; Of loving paragraphs in-depth; Of healing after they wept.