…silence takes the greeting at the door.
Time and again in the past some have gone
…here on these biers they were borne.
So after the gun and the bullet
have made passed their message of death
and the field are painted in crimson,
all is still that roamed under the sun.
…then the women dance the tune of sorrows,
as they roam among the grave rows.
The daughter and the mother,
who shall console the other?
Are they not now the daughter and the widow,
looking into the past from tomorrow’s window?