And he knelt at the graveside clawing at the crimson dirt
Was misery ever so wretched? Or silence so gnawing?
The earth as thirsty and fruitless as his soul without her
The tender roses dried up, their pinks a brittle unloved russet
And he spoke, demanding his answers from them
Words uttered, a singsong mantra, a rhyme for the knowing
Those wise ancients shrouded by the dark glare of mountains
Surely they knew of ardor and boyish endeavors
Beaten shabby by the Eastern sun, licking cracked lips
His tears wetted each word with their salted truths
Coloured beads in his wrenched hands gesture to nobody
Without her he would join them, slip under the cool red soil
Serene where bitter winds and searing suns cannot touch him
She would visit him there at least, touch his name and weep for him
The last visit.