The father is gone…by G. Mramor

I have not returned to set the bones in my father’s body. I have come, and these with me, we bear the oils and the cloak. Our sisters will make the words and the procession, we will mourn for centuries. But we will take him over these city walls to a city farther and there we will lay down our hearts and from them build up his vessel. Our little brothers and sisters will sing over the body and I shall light my father’s chest down the river’s wire so that his heart goes heard no more. So memories leave: the father is gone.

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