Mourning
The melancholy hours
fall into sadness and grief
stream like an open window.
What's essential is invisible to the eye.
There is always the dream of waking
from a nightmare -- desperate means
to no end, Measure for measure,
griefs to be shared, with outstretched hands
and aching hearts, affirming sympathies
to victims' families, young and old, across
continents.
The dead are not numbers on bulletin boards
Whoever has lost his/her life to this pandemic
is a flower plucked prematurely, we live in
their collective memory, the thousands
who perished in virus's executioner hand without
mercy, reminding us life must go on to get revenge,
to frustrate its grand design to wipe us out and
thus close the window of life. When sorrow
has companionship to console, spirit never
forgets the altar of humanity.
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