I'm watching him from a distance, he hasn't moved in hours since.
His cheek is pale, his hands are grave, and he's standing still.
It's been twenty years perhaps, could be be more, I don't know.
Yet he's standing here all the same, wind in hair, boots in snow.
He has no flowers, no candles no wreaths,
No words of of praise, or apologies.
The bell signals the end of day, as approaches the night.
He's standing under the pelting rain, the thunder dissolving his cries.
The feeble man crumbles to dust, as he tries to hug the lost
Her ear splitting cries haunt him again, but alas! All is lost.