Still the silent midst of cold
Calming cowering emptied into solitude
Bunkers around another bitter night
Guided by the lost ones led by bodies and cloaks, always the cloaks, passing by the suffering
With daggered eyes, with naked remorse, while starless heritage and fake fireflies whirl about their sky
And hands graveled by candle butts scarring the evening with disgust
Guide those who still carry the selfless memory of sons and husbands
In a lazy despair lasting the length of other memories
Underneath this anticipation is submission to deserted homes and proud lives
Where onslaughts of youth can be thought of as unburied embraces
When mothers can veil their son’s tears in their dusty pockets
Still the silent midst of cold
