Carrying royal darkness on your head
Crowning all deeds with fragile imaginings
In the drought caused by death
We stand beside your former gown with disarray threaded to our brows.
Those who wrote your tales
Never left keys in your pocket for the heavens
And no chests of fortune, but love
And joyous spells you had abound like this bed of gravel.
Heads are bowed low in mournful gestures
Complexions of your kin ashen and bleak
For this day marks your return to earth’s womb
Leaving sons and memories among the living.
Our hand and feet eventually fail to harvest the ripe
Fruits awaiting on branches of life
Yet, we march on with jest and often sorrow
Clutching our breast like wet vests beneath metal armour.
How will life recall your being, we wonder?
A saint or foe on a franatic sojourn with mortals?
Who we shall recall is mother who consoled
And gave fire to light others homes.
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