The Funeral Poem by Chris Zachariou

Death was brutal.
The child gasped for air
but there was none.

Mamma closed her eyes
bathed her in lavender
and dressed her in a shroud.

Roses and carnations
frankincense and jasmine
the scent of burning censers
laments and flaxen light.

Yet grief is all deceiving.
She is only sleeping they cry.

But the child is dead.
She will never hear her mamma's cries;
she will never see the tears in her papa's eyes.

Her light goes out
chants and burning incense
closed doors and blinds rolled down

a final look;
a gift of soil;
a slice of bread;
a glass of oil;

and through the open earth
she vanishes into the arms of death.