Threnody Viii Poem by Teresa Pelka

Ruthless the vacuity you have made of my abode,
Dear Orsula mine, with this disappearing of yours.
We are plenty, and there is as nobody around,
Such a wealth has departed with a baby soul one.
You ever and again spoke, ever and again sang,
All corners in the house, you always merrily ran.
You did not let your mother hold to worry or trouble,
Nor your father, waste his head in mentating pother.
This one or that one, so gracefully embracing,
You were, with that smile witty, joyous entertaining.
Now, all is silence; the house became empties profound;
There is no more littlun play, no laughter to resound,
Every corner, man is breathing a piercing sad:
In the sweetling child, seeks comfort in vain, the pained heart.