What value is there in a widow’s hours?
Her love’s gone, now she’s restless in her grief.
Does she from life’s insanity now cower?
Or welcome madness as a kindly thief?
She sits forlorn and gazes at the trees
From summer ripe to winter bare of leaf.
But no-one knows quite what it is she sees:
Not surfaces but skeletons beneath.
Unthinkable, immeasurable sorrow deep
Uncontainable the cataract released.
Destroying the tranquillity of sleep.
Suffering which mere death cannot make cease.
No, elimination of both holy life and death.
Return of all that is to nothingness.
How my heart sings 