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The child lies in a morgue pretending to sleep,
Whilst the mother sings a broken lullaby,
Like the moon hiding behind the winter clouds,
The feeble mourning hides a hollow goodbye.
Tasting the pungent chant, the pine is ready,
The final sour note has renounced evermore,
A limbo of the unknown enduring frost,
An emotive massacre in lingual war.
An evil eye to forespeak the fatal wound,
The hypocrite, insecure with the restrain,
A struggle to cover indented foot prints,
That cannot be covered by pitiful rain.
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