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How Does One Mourn?

How does one mourn a king? Dead.
Bedded beneath the cold soil.
Foiled by mortal follies and
Standards reserved for a god.
Sodden earth enthrones him now.
How does one weep tears for distant men
When our cattle die in a bare field,
Yielding to the frosty night,
Blighted pastures or spring banditry?

We are simple farmers, all!
Calling the gods to bless a dead king,
Singing dirges in the chill
Still is a thing beyond us.
Dust claims our kind in the eve.
Grieving women beg and call;
Bawling, crying out a prayer,
Fair as they were taught.
Not for the likes of the kings.

Things change. Empires tumble in a day
Weighing the workers down low.
So they cry for the famine.
Lamentations for the children dead,
Shedding tears for winter's frost,
Lost husbands, sons called to war.
For these things are greater still.

Will they mourn our tragedy?
We leave our mark in water,
Scattered by the tides of time. Unknown.
Stone is for kings. It will last:
Passed down by poets and bards.

Hardship is ever our task.
Ask us not to weep and mourn
Our throats are dry with anguish.