The Widow’s Lament

Beneath a sky of weeping gray,
She knelt where love had turned to clay.
The wind moaned soft, the church bell tolled,
A story shattered, left untold.

His name was carved in stone so white,
A beacon lost to endless night.
Their vows still echoed, cold and thin,
Yet death had carved its name within.

The cottage walls stood worn and bare,
A hollow home, a vacant chair.
His scent still lingered on the sheets,
Yet time erased his warmth in beats.

She wore his coat, she kept his ring,
And in the night, she heard him sing—
Or was it wind through empty halls,
A voice that rose, then softly falls?

Their daughter, bright as morning’s light,
Still played in fields of green and white.
She’d hum his tune with childlike grace,
And search for shadows on her face.

Yet grief had built a wall so high,
That love and loss could not untie.
The mother watched, but could not see,
How love still bloomed in memory.

One eve, upon the restless shore,
She swore she heard his voice once more—
Not in the wind, nor in the deep,
But in the laughter of their seed.

She turned to find her daughter’s gaze,
Two mirrors bright with embered days.
She knelt, she wept, she held her tight,
And let him go into the night.

And though the pain would never wane,
She danced with joy within the rain.
For love may leave, and hearts may break,
But love remains, though death may wake.

End.