If grief becomes our battle cry,
the song whereby we do or die,
can love reseal the wounds we rent,
sustain the spirits bruised and bent
beyond their shape? Can we repair
diminished lights once bright and fair?
Or have they gone forever cold
abandoning the tales they told
with pride? They shutter every star
and wander, lonely, out afar
to find themselves a wholesome mud
untouched by bitter tears or blood.
Our sons delight in fathers’ sin
and multiply the hurt, the din.