Tuesday, 1 June 2010


There's a child kneeling in the grass,
clawing at her face,
weeping bitterly
out of upturned eyes.

The pretty pink balloon
with its bright white ribbon
is now a distant dot,
drowned in the vastness of the sky.
The reassuring pull of the string,
that had tugged on her hand all day
like a puppeteer,
making her dance amidst the graves,
is gone;
she is slumped over now,
her hands lifeless in her lap.

She's not weeping with regret,
not mourning letting that happy little string
slip her bungling grasp--
the balloon looks so pretty up there,
flying free, alive,
seeing the whole world at once.

She's weeping because
her beautiful friend,
that bouyant globe of captive life,
once lost in the clouds
will be gone forever.
She cannot follow it;
she cannot fly.

She feels thick and heavy,
as dead as the headstone
she leans upon to weep.

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