Funeral

'Twas time our teeth be sealed with bogus lips, frozen from the frost of tears. Except for a form of mourning, they were to remain captives, the thirty two of them or less. From aloft, we all seemed black ants, clustering for honey, But our reasons for gathering was bitter. As bitter as the shreiking voice of the violin, The tiring voice of the organ, as bitter as the sound of the hymns sung, As the thoughts it bore so clung. Assuredly a melodious tune it was, but our feets refused to dance. 'stead, more tears watered the soil, dust of grief arose, containing airs' naivety. 'Twas the last of the gigantic rectangle, slowly immersing, the grounds imbibing, shovel scorching sands with withered hands, bodies swaying, more intriguing than martial arts, honouring its lasts.