The veil of night decays at dawn,
With distant light, the stitches torn;
In pallor that the light engraves
Across the land in leaden waves,
Upon the soil, stones of graves
With infants never to be born.
A song befell, I drank its’ hue,
The mourning dove laments adieu
When meadows wake bejeweled with dew
And haunted by the ghost of morn.
That fog uplifts a gentle wing…
O mourning dove, O how you sing;
My sinking heart, you pull the string
And bury me in songs forlorn.
A single tear shall fall with grace
As to that final note I chase.