Song of the Bereaved

The night is done—

Our time

When the sun rises on the sea

And the smell of brine

Draws you and me

Out on the sand to run.

 

Today we cannot run—

Your night is done,

And it is only me

Here in our time,

Watching the foaming brine

As the sun rises on the sea.

 

How can the sun still rise on the sea?

When you are not here to run?

Each wave, a fresh sting of brine

On an open wound the night has done.

This was our time,

But you are not here with me.

 

You’ve left me,

Gone beyond the sun that rises on the sea.

I know. This is your time.

You have fairer paths to run—

And I am glad your night is done.

But I loathe the taste of brine.

 

The constant crashing of the brine

Beats out a new pace for me.

The night is not done,

But I must see the sun rising on the sea.

I will keep the path we used to run

And remember our time,

 

Waiting for my time

And the sweet smell of brine

On the paths I’ve never run.

Watch for me

When the sun sets on the sea

And the day is done.

 

Then we will run forever, you and me,

When the Sun rises on the sea,

When the night is done.

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