These days there seem to be no victories,
No marches in triumph between a roaring crowd:
Only the sad parade of sorrow,
The sounds of pain keening on a carrying breeze.
Your friend’s eyes full of sympathy,
Ears catching your confessing words:
But behind the attentive face
He waits the time
To match your grief with his.
I've had so many of these conversations in my life. There is an ironic beauty in joining in sorrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
That word 'keening' always slices me. Ahhh, he's just waiting his turn; I know him too.