I lean to the post of procession
and feel the strong wind caressing
the bones that we were carrying.
We proceed as we do to receive
the reward of ritual, like coronation,
a crown that has been transferred
a sceptre handed over to another
dignified grasp, greeting those
that greet us as we say farewell.
While the dead sleep, the living must remain
restless, where lives still rage in anxieties,
tears still shed. Now our voice is muted,
no utterances spelled through the air, but
obediently tuned to bring dignity
and grace to our preponderant hope.
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