She Ran

She ran
Far away
Into a wooded grove
to pound upon stone

She has run.
The monks have not gathered
in the grove yet
to chant gregorian lullabies.

"what is done is not done."
she says to the broken stone
"My young son waits beneath here
Remembrance is by me alone."

"His spirit rests in wilderness
Blocked off by brambles
and poison which is ivy
But yet here I stand."

"Bereaved.
I alone. Hold yesteryear.
I always and forever alone. Loneliness.
Crushed by melancholic mania of grief."

I weep. I whisper barely audible.
The voices of my daughters beckon. Restrain.
I cease pounding.

I go home, their love awaits.
But so awaits loneliness.
And pains of a distant catholic man.
Phantasm of my past which haunts my heart.

I tell myself I will not rise.
Hope has fled me.
Melancholic Mania grips me.
And yet...

Voices of my children's love bring me home.