The drums move,
one, two, one, two
as if she feels the vibrations.
A shroud for her soft bones,
yet they cannot feel her anymore.
Moorish grey clouds weep tears
as they step and move in time.
At the pyre, the drums beat loud
as they dance and sing for her.
Published by C and K Words
Human | Lawyer | Poet | Story Spinner | Finding inspiration everywhere | Writing poetry and words from different spaces and places | Photographing nature and things |
View all posts by C and K Words