Forever Grief
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The soft breeze soughs softly through the tall cypress trees.
I stare at the tomb of my son, gone so long now.
How he loved to sail on gentle summer smooth seas.
The soft breeze soughs softly through the tall cypress trees.
A cold gust of squall, he drowned slowly by degrees.
I stare at the cold slab, my head in prayer I bow.
The soft breeze soughs softly through the tall cypress trees.
I stare at the tomb of my son, gone so long now.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2023
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