There is no comfort for those shorn
Of love, of laughter’s sweet caress.
Like sheep in spring, we bleat when torn
From vital warmth, from life’s dear breath.
We move in lines bewildering,
In queues too solemn to be borne.
We wet parched lips, remembering,
And, as survivors left to mourn,
We blindly herd across the green,
Our eyes unfocused in our grief.
We stumble over thoughts unseen
And pray our anguish will be brief.
We sometimes envy those departed
Who, like wool, fresh clipped and dyed,
Will weave a future full, fresh-hearted,
While we grieve for that denied.
