Mother dies, a small shrunken frame

Of loose skin and fragile bones,

No longer a name

but fragments of memory

in silence that follows the dwindling tone

of a bell struck at sunrise or sunset.

 
Mother dies, inanimate, but

soon melting into essence,

no more a woman

where there is eerie music

unheard by the living or a mirror that shows

us death and our victory over death.

 

Mother dies, goes on her way, but of course,

her horses keep on running round and round.