Who am I to weep at a
supposed grave of a
dead ancestor?
Yet tears fall—thick and sweet—at your
blue velvet bier,
beloved Rachel,
while outside
boy soldiers, in green
stand guard.
Tears for them
and for me
a great flowing river of tears.
Yours, Rachel, remembered
for so long
and mine, still fresh,
mix
and overflow,
for a moment,
the dry banks
of separation.
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