At dawn, through weather dim and grey,
an eyelid trembles in the hush;
a call beyond the flesh gives way—
a pulse of pain, a dream’s faint rush.
I’ll speak, without a hope of pardon,
a bitter truth through empty halls:
“He was young, and brave, and certain—
the strongest link within our walls.”
And all the candles bend and waver,
a shadow sways beneath the dome;
a falcon’s cry rings out forever,
and sunrise turns toward home.
Unmoving now, like withered branches,
no tear remains—the well’s too high;
his mother sits, and never beckons,
stroking life’s shrunken wig, awry.
And time will roll as time before,
the hands of clocks their course will prove;
but others live on, fearing more—
the hour they hear that morning call’s remove.