Villanelle

Villanelle That which brings joy bears grief beneath its wings. The ground of all our prayers is strewn with seeds. We’ve bid our grief come with the songs we sing. Grief is the old mistress of breathing things. We have sired and saddled our hope-winged steeds. That which brings joy bears grief beneath its wings. He who beckons joy, certain of its stings, The old mistress tricks on a bed of needs. We’ve bid our grief come with the songs we sing. The old mistress sleeps with paupers and kings; The seeds bear fruit upon which our hope feeds. That which brings joy bears grief beneath its wings. On our winged steeds we pray the death-knell rings Loudly the loss of mistress and her deeds. We’ve bid our grief come with the songs we sing. Our needs sire our prayers, it is this, which brings Old mistress. That which heals is that which bleeds. That which bears joy brings grief beneath its wings: We’ve bid our joy come by the songs we sing.