The morn is still
The sun drags on, weary
across the brightening sky.
Elsewhere, the harsh cock crow
Can be heard from the ruby chanticleer.
A boy's face is still and calm
Empty eyes drawn shut
By warm hands. The boy is cold and
Can be heard from a congregation
Of students who did not know him.
I did not know him.
Our voices are scratchy and hoarse.
He is lowered down into the ground
six feet below the unsettled dirt.
The keening halts abruptly.
I'm here for a boy I didn't know,
But we are bound by the threads
Of a common history.
Rest easy kid,
I will come again