You know the widow’s sad and can mourn and grieve all day
But the anger and the hatred,she’s not supposed to say
She can cry upon the duvet, she can moan under the stairs
But the rage and irritation are not to be declared
She can order man size tissues in boxes multiplied
But the venomous ,vindictiveness imply that love had died
She can be dissociated, she can be without affect
But if she says how well she hated him, everybody’s vexed
Who can live so closely for forty and five years
Without needing a dressmaker to sew up all the tears?
Who can be accepting when money and time’s scarce
There’s a war inside the heart of us everybody hears
Scratched and bitten daily, struck by falling stars
Who can come to help us from our warring hearts?
How my heart sings 