Grant me a corner
in which to cry;
through joyous eyes
I saw my son born,
through bleeding eyes
I watched him die.
Grant me a corner
in which to cry.


Permit me a quiet place;
let tender fingers
sew together
a wounded heart,
which through
my son's death,
has been torn apart.
Permit me
a healing place.


Allow me a soft bed
on which to rest;
let someone soothe
my aching brow;
keep the memory
of my first born son,
not amidst the dry reeds
or dull souls,
but amongst the best.
Allow me a bed
on which to rest.

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Mic_M_L_Silverline's picture

your piece is softly spoken,

your piece is softly spoken, but strong. I think that it is not an easy thing to have gone through, what you speak of in this poem. 

Do you remember why we're here?

Dadio's picture

Thank you, Mic Silverline.

Thank you, Mic Silverline.