And so we weep for the fallen. We weep for those yet to fall, and in war the screams are loud and harsh and in peace the wail is so drawn-out we tell ourselves we hear nothing.

Truths, yes. One after another, one boulder settling down, then another. And another. Blotting out the light, darkness closing in, grit and sand sifting down, a solid silence when the last one is in place. Now, dear fool, try drawing a single breath. A single breath.There were clouds closed fast round the moon. And one by one, gardens died.

Truths, yes. One after another, one boulder settling down, then another. And another. Blotting out the light, darkness closing in, grit and sand sifting down, a solid silence when the last one is in place. Now, dear fool, try drawing a breath. A single breath.There were clouds closed fast round the moon. And one by one, gardens died.

Keep repeating the exercise of grief and it loses meaning, it becomes rote, false, a game of self-delusion, self-indulgence. A way of never getting over anything, ever.

There is no point in honoring the dead. I have seen too much to believe otherwise.Grieve for lost potential, the end of possibilities, the eternally silence demise of promise.Grieve for that, Fear Sengar, and you will understand, finally, how grief is but a mirror, held close to one’s own face.

The soul knows no greater anguish than to take a breath that begins with love and ends with grief.