The clamour and some weeps and whispers
The dark day is sunny outside
The shroud covers what once was alive
While some white figurines move around in careful steps
Busy drying their damp eyes
Over their chance to Peace being stolen
By someone else again.
Some lean boys are busy outside
Weaving mats to carry him somewhere
While time as an old woman squatted among them
Knits knots for them in a similar thread.
My friend here says the thread is red
The colour of warm blood
Or black for the sorrow and dread
That it will engulf the home of the dead.
But I think the thread must be blue
For the freedom from all mortal pain
Or lovely shades of vibrant pink
For the unburdened, guiltless, flirtatious joy
Or maybe it is the orange tint
Of sunset in the open sky
For who could say the sun wasn't smiling
When it jumps into its deathly bay?