The sunshine may soothe the soil where pyres had once breathed
The rain may moisten smokes of wrath seethed
The smiles may persuade the tears of their honesty
Shunned weights may vanish in convincing levity
With the solitary peck, the dawn may break again
Concerns may creep into the indifference we feign
Flowers may adorn the branches where the dried were shed
But, somewhere deep, we will always be a little dead.