Once again, the dreary dirges have begun an upward journey.
The sunny day did not end in a moonlit night,
The flute is keening for the latest victim,
Another soul has crossed over.
Once again, Death decides the colour of the clothe we wear,
He has taken the mirth and now our chest is wet with tears.
That one who was here is now gone,
And we do not expect his return.
Many have left us before; so many we lost count.
And yet the pain is always the same,
Always just as heartbreaking as the last time if not more.
Perhaps, it is. Indeed it is more.
For we always hope the just Fallen would be the last,
Hoping that Fate would not be cruel enough to cause us yet another parting.
But then Death lives just to prove us wrong.
To prove to us that He takes at His will,
Never minding even if it is from the very same tree.
We always mourn the departure of Fallen men.
But are we, the Living, any better off?
Do we not also deserve to be keened for?
For we die and are buried with our fallen loves,
And our souls already begin to rot before the mortal death.
We are witnesses of countless obituaries,
And attendants of endless wakes.
We mourn with the disheartened families.
But the pain we feel is not of the Loss we have suffered,
Not of the emptiness the bleak future presents,
Nor of the choking nostalgia that stalls the heartbeat,
But the fact that we are always the burying not the buried.
The fact that we always look on hopelessly as our fellows are taken,