Mourning

We are a cheerful bunch of young people

Arm in arm

Skipping through the ghostly years of childhood.

Not a care stops our laughter

For we all wish we had no cares.

We are living in a growing jungle

Delirious of all that is attached to us

Unconcerned by the melting of the sun

Into a night that promises beasts

And dreams of spectres.

We live only for the time

Where the jungle leaves are brushed

By the soft calming fingers of the day.

We are being trained for sorrow

We are quietly drinking in the joy

Of our innocence

Before the grievous coming of our imperfection.

We happily discuss the day

Without turning ourselves to its beauty

As if we were the day in all its beauty,

Yet we notice that the day is not unhappy

It lives in acceptance of its imperfection,

It too knows the memory of death.

We are but children in the life of humanity.

We know of nothing greater than ourselves

That is not hidden by the obscurity and fear

Of our fallibility,

Except our sad visions of perfection.