When Old Mothers Die

Ask not the son with grey beard

When it was.

Ask not the daughter with sad breasts

If her mom wasn't ailing for long.

Try not to catch their eyes to tell you have come

They don't generally see.

Leave 'em alone, Oh leave 

For they are travellers in some strange

world .

Make a bow and depart, but have my word.

They will meet you in the street a year hence,

Tell you of a woman no more who was their mom .

They can now talk of her as one no more

And feel no pain.

By some strange alchemy of time,or

Gentle stroke of fate,

They've come of age.