There in black lace and robes of velvet the morners gather,
a rocky cove on the ocean of grief.
They are in pictures we have made, in color more fantastic,
in shapes more vivid, in edges more clean.
The mourn as we do not mourn,
cry as we do not cry,
feel loss as loss is denied us,
save in extremities of war or panicked ill fortune's grasp.
It has taken on a death of its own, these years,
a gulf that separates us from our pasts and present,
where, across the sea, and across the sands,
forgotten people mourn, in forgotten lands.
[Last one of the poetry project. It is time to put my fingers to other tasks... Though of course, more verse will visit these pages from time to time.]