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A woman
A woman wearing black attends my death and softly holds my mother's greyish cheek, to slowly calm her frantic heart or seek something: I never saw that hand from birth. She speaks the words that cuddle cropped breath, and uses lovely sounds amidst the bleak of mourning, singing warming songs in Greek—and still: I never heard that voice from birth.
But she begins to lick my mother's tears, and sings impure romantic songs by men caressing teary eyes that look with fears, as spit remains like the ink from a pen. She drinks the helpless tears of grieving peers and spits the salt into their eyes again.
and gently holds my mother's pale cheek, slowly calming her anxious heart or searching for something: I never saw that hand before. She speaks words that soothe short breaths, and uses beautiful sounds amidst the sadness of mourning, singing comforting songs in Greek—and still:
I never heard that voice before. But she starts to lick my mother's tears, and sings impure love songs by men soothing teary eyes that look with fear, as spit stays like ink from a pen. She drinks the helpless tears of grieving friends