Nursing the Dead

Nursing the dead
is like cleansing their skin, of the
fate which they have met.

All the skin that they have shed,
to shreds of stories
it is akin.

Through scars it tells
them with their thread,
speaks of tales unknown;
of tears that dried,
of lies condoned,
unveils words unspoken -
their eyes go wide before their
gaze softens.

Never forget
the ones who passed;
their hearts...
they beat...
in you...
my son,
so that a century will they outlast.

Please do not weep when I leave,
for I will be drinking from
the sun.

Move on, my son - my only one,
or your heart will die
from grief.