The widower

The sky bleeds darkness

the sand swallows the souls of his previous lovers

in his eyes, every reason is bleak and mundane

he speaks a language only mourners of existence comprehend

and bows in silence for as many times the big church bell klings

His children are his acquired treasure

more priceless than precious stones

he knows the truth no mouth will reveal

no one can play his melody on the lyre

a carefree hymn of enchantment and dread

A resourceful charm is his prowess

his trusted craft becomes milk and butter

saving his home during uneventful rain

when billows of lightening flares up and storm roll in

he’ll light a lantern and sit by the hooded window

He is the poster child of endearment

never had a lazy moment or a sick day

his views are not of a feminist

though feminists look up to him

he still waters the tree of justice

he is just a man

who leaned on the fountain of his strength

who swam in a river of loneliness

till his shoulders were numb

and his cup was dry

He emptied his woes before the king’s court

in exchange for a few shekels of silver

Lo and behold, he saw a humble Mathyr

and rewarded him on solstice moon

with wisdom and grace as armour

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