They’ve died under veils,
the sad widows.

The tolls have been pulled
and creak of planks,
have sung the funeral hymn,
of falling into the depths of ground.

They’ve died
under tears,
the barren widows.

The wooden boxes
have been nailed
and ropes, festered by past,
once more remembered
what they have to do.

They’ve died
with the watch light,
the old widows.

The fresh soil that smelled like wine
was hit with shovels
and flowers were sprinkled
on the absinthe grave.

They’ve died
under oblivion,
all widows.