Grief

Grief;

so much of them,

old and new,

like tainted dirt and mud

covering the Earth.

The old-bound crone

dutifully sat

in this pitiful grave;

and now she's gone,

you're sitting

in her place.

(And she wonders if

she, too, will melt away,

becoming one with the mush

just like that crone.)

So spill your tears

to wash the grime.

Let its flood

carry all;

not just this ruins,

but also the remains

of your old friend.

(Thus cry she does,

Thus mourn she does.)

Can you see it?

The river you created,

the warm path and carriage

for her to depart?

Can you hear it?

The crone's farewell:

"Human's greed may

know no end, but

so do the cycles

of universes."