A Sense of Yearning

I happen to know a common pallbearer Who mourns all deaths around him; His eyes have the wisdom you’d expect But the light in them is quite dim.  He carries corpses; he carries them everyday, And never does he ask for the name of the dead. ‘Cause someday it will be someone he knows And the name shall never escape his head. Said he once, ‘Today I carried a little girl’ ‘Seven she was, I heard them say… My daughter would be seven by now, yes, Had it not been such a bad day.’ He still believes the little girl heard His whisper, in her box so small; ‘Sleep well little girl, whoever you are, For this sleep eventually comes to us all.’ ‘Had you lived a little more, child, You would have known how the world looks. But don’t be sad, for it’s not as beautiful As they lie in your colourful books.’ The pallbearer sees an obscure face, The face of his daughter behind a veil, And a smile; The smile that pulls out tears; And the smile that