Coronach the song sad, mellow
and slow, the steps taken
hollow, and the glances
black as roots - the rain
pours and the swallows
swing and swoop as if they
disdain our sorrow and
our moaning - the  song
dying and rising as if by
using our vocal  chords
we could say and
unsay, extol and remember
an entire life lived, the
laugh swallowed forever,
the gait, the hands, the
work, the laughter - all
lost to earth and the
hereafter.  Coronach is
my language now, a
tongue of blood and guilt,
a grief observed and
living long after, the
sweat I produce is
soul-stuff and a life made
weak and thin.
Demeter's Fields
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