On board the pilgrimage To the sleeping fields Where your eyes awoke to the summer's eve, After tears were but the meadow's dew, Your sighs, the night's departure, Your cries, the Heaven we both cross. Upon a night's crawl through the forests, Atop the simmering outline of your form, Through the shouldering cascades Of a million-and-one branding stars Against your hollow heart, We stay. We mourn, we cross, we sigh All emotions into a flurry, Into a panic, Into a crawl, Into a halt. We are, upon the boat of love-making, the funeral ended. We fall asleep against the drift Of each person's lasting skip To their hearts, when apart from the dearly remembered. My love loses her sight, Loses her voice, When not remembered within the twilight. Let those owls rush their wings against our stare, Against our sun. They will comprehend our day is worth more than the night, When realizing remembrance Is more often than what is lost in the dark.