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The clouds haven't dropped any lower, nor the sun grown any dimmer. The birds still sing every morning, and the cat still muses atop the roof every evening. Everything is as it usually is, and perhaps that's what drives me crazy the most. How can everything out there be so serene, while I can barely grab a hold of my own thoughts? Or maybe nature fails to mourn, for in a way unknown to we, you still live on. 
Maybe it is in the thoughts of your mystery, that you live on. The more we wonder about you, as a mystery, the closer we feel you. It is as if the mouth of the everhungry earth opens up, and allows you to whisper unto us. You are hard to forget .Perhaps this pain is the souvenir you left in us ,a skipped beat every minute, and a sharp tear before bedtime .As the flowers perched upon your grave blossom, fall and blossom again, so do your memories, making tides in the spaces of our hearts, only you could occupy. Farewell. 

        Elegy to my cobbler 
Elliepoet

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