Some remember
Others forget.
The memories
That past begets.

Some weep
Struck with grief
Some sing
For relief.

Some feel,
In the clouds
The horror of
Thunder abounds.

Some usher
Into blossom
The dried up bower.

In the tender
Stalk of a lotus,
Some find
The thorn,
Others, the flower.

Some trample
Over the flowers.
Some wreathe
The garlands.

Some do not
Light the candles
In their nights
Of perpetual sorrow.

Some keep awake
With doors open
For the new
Moon of tomorrow.