She was dressed in all black
with a hidden smile on her face,
smoking her cherry cigarette
as she sang- halle, halle- inside.
Burning candles and exotic music
slide- or hide- beneath the coffin
as she smiles at the whispers.
Poor, poor woman, he child is dead.
But she sang- halle, halle- isnide,
listening to the ode to children,
watching as everyone weeps
around her with their sorrows- no-
catching up, chasing her joy
because- oh, look- her child died
just two- not so far- nights ago.
Why, the whispers asked the others,
why is the- poor, poor- child dead?
The others looked away- oh boy-
they knew the truth behind the walls,
seeing all and saying nothing
about the child who died- why?-
by her- oh not poor- mother's hand
as she sang- halle, halle- inside.