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

Mournful keening

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

Tomorrow, mourning



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