It's just streams of tears,
Entering an overflowing pond,
With no living actuality,
Tethering them to the lost land.
We leave them a happy ode,
A wreath of everlasting colours,
And take away their final sands,
To remember them,
In picture frames-
Pilots and miners,
Fishermen and farmers,
Septarians and teens,
All of them,
Every one of them.

A moment of silence has already passed,
The sorrow has already been shared,
But the emptiness ever grows wide,
And untouchable, unfixable,
Irreversible.
We'll  paint them in portraits,
And raise a toast on holidays,
We'll tell stories to children,
Grandchildren,
Stories to be woven into the sweaters Of cinema,
Of theatre,
Of opera.

An epitaph or some ash
Isn't enough to pull them out,
Out of our interlaced existence,
Their past is our future.
They left some history for us,
To be learned,
To be corrected,
To be rewritten,
To be sung.

We bow our heads,
And join our hands,
And breath in the air,
They once with us shared,
With reverence,
Deeply instilled,
Moving and unmoving,
A tree has been sown,
And we'll let it grow.

~~~

A/N:

I tried writing an Elegy today, for every lost life in this battle against Covid-19.

I'm  unsure if it evokes the same kind of emotions as it should in this kind of poetry, so some feedback would  be greatly appreciated.