It's summertime, but much cooler winds blow.
A church bell breaks silence.  Five grim cars go slow. 
Now this is no wedding well underway,
no just celebration, or high holiday.

Behind, an old willow lowers its head
and roses by hundreds, all crimson red,
stand tall for the victims coming to rest,
the nervous kind known by those souls most oppressed.

So many arriving, though too many sleep.
Majority's absent. The outnumbered weep.
How many young dreamers were lost before night?
Which moment decides we rise into light?

Distractions drown out such sorrowful sounds.
Like clockwork, a headline abounds and astounds.
More mourners shall gather.  Large crowds will protest.
The numbed shrug off news of civil unrest.

It's summertime, fine.  See Death stroll with ease.
Two mothers by gravestones fold at the knees.
Three brothers pray up to gray skies for relief.
Green fields grow queasy with daisies and grief.