at the tap of catalysm
we scoop the voice of a nightingale
to sing psalms reaching God's bosoms.
call it anything you like,
a ritual of a mad man
because you feel only
the insane sprinkle psalms
on a dead body instead of tears.
we just sing
not because we await a miracle
shedding off itself from necromancy
but because we have been taught
to weigh our losses.
down this alley,
you'll see a man
kneeling before his dead son
yet, singing psalms
because he's other children
at home to scatter his rooms
unlike his barren next door neighbour.