All things brave and beautiful
All things great and small
Joy, a life, a funeral urn
Is there a point at all?
I can't relax until his breathing
Comes regular and deep,
And relief I know is temporary
A brief and fitful sleep.
For I'd wasted something precious
frittered unaware,
That one only knows one's ever had
when it's no longer there.
I didn't give importance to
what I now know I know:
I love him, I love him
And I don't want him to go.
