Blues For The Widow Of The Victim Of A Racist Attck
Mourn, and mourn hard
Your tears shall fall wasted and uncollected
On this damp slab of concrete
Mourn though young widow
Weep because your husband is dead
Cry because the crowd has left and you're alone
And ganged up against by the priests and the
Celebrity pastors who piously tell you
To forgive and forget
Sob because you're surrounded by the officials
Whom the wise state has instructed to order you
To accept reconciliation without justice
Cry the river of your tears because
Your dear departed husband is dead
And your lovely children will know what it's like
To miss the soothing voice of their father
So brutally snatched away from them
And dragged behind a speeding vehicle and fed
To the lions for the sick amusement
Of a deranged and kaffir hating racist
Mourn for yourself mama
Now you'll face the world alone
With the dubious title of a single parent
Hanging on your fragile and emaciated neck
Mourn and cry and weep for the widows
Of the victims of genocide
Mourn and cry and weep for the sisters
Who are cornered and raped by their xenophobic neighbors
Mourn and cry and weep for the victims of the hurricane of
The internecine strife of ethnic cleansing and tribal warfare
Mourn and cry and weep for they
Who die unlamented in the flower of their youth
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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Related quotes
Never Mourn At My Funeral
Never mourn at my funeral
Because i'm not dead but sleeping
And relaxing on Abraham's bossom
Never mourn at my funeral
You that come in view to mourning
But within you, you're here to mock
Because my poetry has once expose your secret-deeds
Throw my body where you please
Or let it be dismembered
Never mourn at my funeral
You the insect that bites my daffodils
And you who want my fish to swim on a dry earth
Throw me on a stormy sea
Where Jonah fell
But its a glorious shame
I can never sight the river bank of Joppa
Never mourn at my funeral
You that come in my maker's name
Just to bless my end
Go thy way and search for lust souls
Wear them a garment pure as snow
Before they lie low with me
And journey hell eternal
Never mourn at my funeral
But mourn for we're debtors of death
poem by Adesitimi Taiwo
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Sighs
All night I muse, all day I cry,
Ay me!
Yet still I wish, though still deny,
Ay me!
I sigh, I mourn, and say that still
I only live my joys to kill,
Ay me !
I feed the pain that on me feeds,
Ay me!
My wound I stop not, though it bleeds,
Ay me!
Heart, be content, it must be so,
For springs were made to overflow,
Ay me!
Then sigh and weep, and mourn thy fill,
Ay me!
Seek no redress, but languish still,
Ay me!
Their griefs more willing they endure
That know when they are past recure,
Ay me!
Weep no more
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that 's gone:
Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see.
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.
poem by John Fletcher
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Sighs
All night I muse, all day I cry,
Ay me!
Yet still I wish, though still deny,
Ay me!
I sigh, I mourn, and say that still
I only live my joys to kill,
Ay me !
I feed the pain that on me feeds,
Ay me!
My wound I stop not, though it bleeds,
Ay me!
Heart, be content, it must be so,
For springs were made to overflow,
Ay me!
Then sigh and weep, and mourn thy fill,
Ay me!
Seek no redress, but languish still,
Ay me!
Their griefs more willing they endure
That know when they are past recure,
Ay me!
poem by Anonymous Americas
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I don't mourn the dead. I mourn the living.
quote by Stephen Evans
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mary, the Maid o' the Tay
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Tay,
Whaur me and my Mary oft did stray;
But noo she is dead and gone far away,
Sae I maun mourn for lovely Mary, the Maid o' the Tay,
The first time I met her 'twas in the month of May,
And the sun was shining bricht on the Silvery Tay;
I asked her name and she modestly did say,
"Some fouks ca's me lovely Mary, the Maid o' the Tay."
Oh, charming Mary o' the Tay,
Queen o' my soul by nicht and day;
But noo thou'rt gane and left me here
To weep for you, sweet Mary dear.
Oh, bonnie Mary o' the Tay,
Joy o' my heart and Queen o' May;
With thee I aye felt happy and gay
While rambling with thee on the banks o' the Tay.
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Tay,
With my Mary ye seemed ever gay;
But noo ye seem baith dark and drear,
For my puir heart ye canna cheer.
My Mary was handsome and fair to be seen,
She bad bonnie fair hair and twa blue een;
And she was, aye happy while we carelessly did stray
Alang the banks o' the Silvery Tay.
Oh, Mary dear, I mourn thy loss,
To me the world seems nought but dross;
Sae I maun mourn baith nicht and day
For my lovely Mary, the Maid o' the Tay.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Song Of Yoomy
Departed the pride, and the glory of Mardi:
The vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea,
That rolls o'er his corse with a hush,
His warriors bend over their spears,
His sisters gaze upward and mourn.
Weep, weep, for Adondo is dead!
The sun has gone down in a shower;
Buried in clouds the face of the moon;
Tears stand in the eyes of the starry skies,
And stand in the eyes of the flowers;
And streams of tears are the trickling brooks,
Coursing adown the mountains.--
Departed the pride, and the glory of Mardi:
The vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea.
Fast falls the small rain on its bosom that
sobs,--
Not showers of rain, but the tears of Oro.
poem by Herman Melville
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If you wish me to weep, you must mourn first yourself.
Mosiah 18: 8
I do not share his feelings -
not that I don't care, definitely not.
It's just that he's crying for something
I'm happy about.
How in the world could I feel sorrow
for something I rejoice of...
How can I conceal the smiles
in the midst of his pain-
and mourn, yet deep inside I just but feign?
Surely, I feel sorry for him
but I don't share his feelings.
I want to give him comfort
but how, I know not.
I'm afraid that in this moment of his life,
my face would fail me...I hope not.
Tell me, is it really that easy
to mourn with those that mourn?
23 October 2010
San Nicolas
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Paulo Post Futuri
WEEP ye not, ye children dear,
That as yet ye are unborn:
For each sorrow and each tear
Makes the father's heart to mourn.
Patient be a short time to it,
Unproduced, and known to none;
If your father cannot do it,
By your mother 'twill be done.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Pain of the Earth
DOES the earth grow grey with grief
For her hero darling fled?
Though her vales let fall no leaf,
In our hearts her tears are shed.
Still the stars laugh on above:
Not to them her grief is said;
Mourning for her hero love
In our hearts the tears are shed.
We her children mourn for him,
Mourn the elder hero dead;
In the twilight grey and dim
In our hearts the tears are shed.
poem by George William Russell
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To -------.
1.
Think not of it, sweet one, so;--
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any, any where.
2.
Do not look so sad, sweet one,--
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then, it is gone,
O 'twas born to die!
3.
Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
Weep, I'll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.
4.
Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.
5.
Yet -- as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses,
E'en let us too! but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.
poem by John Keats
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Think Of It Not, Sweet One
THINK not of it, sweet one, so;---
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any---anywhere.
Do not lool so sad, sweet one,---
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then,---it is gone---
O 'twas born to die!
Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
Weep, I'll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.
Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.
Yet---as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses,
E'en let us too! but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.
poem by John Keats
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15th August to Bengali people
Mourn
It's a command I demmand you
mourn, fool and so ignorant
you must mourn
History is clear, amazingly open
and you still say you don't know that
a pity, I must say you should mourn,
you deserve no sympathy, you lost all
In this caged race, they will dominate, a few
and you so enormous don't understand
what you lost, your root
you must mourn, you want deception, prefer ambiguity
afraid! I have no sympathy
my poor fellow, beloved countrymen
you must mourn.
Note: Bengali people still today say they don't know the real history of their liberation war. What a shame! Actually everybody knows the history because there is no two story. we faught and liberate our country. And then some collabratore killed the Father of the nation Sheikh Mujibur Rahman in 15th August 1975. To confuse all they say we do not know the real history of liberation war. but actually there is no real history, as history is one. And it is, Sheikh Mujib was the mastermind of our leberation. A handfull of Biheris and west pakistany settlers and their sympathesizers run the country after 1975 and still conspiring against Bengali people. they speak in Bengali, but they hate Bengali. and Bengali people do not still understand this and do not realize what they lost. Alas!
poem by Humayun Nasir
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The passing spring
The passing spring
Birds mourn,
Fishes weep
With tearful eyes.
poem by Matsuo Basho
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The Immortal Souls
Gloomy sky is searching her brave twin skyscraper
sadly disappeared on this particular day five years ago
and I hear the lament of Lady Liberty who cries for the grave tragedy.
The loved ones mourn for the loss of three thousand hearts
those who left five years ago without saying a good-bye!
This catastrophe was written in every heart
and we all mourn on this sad day
from our bottom of the hearts
for the immortal souls.
Dedication to the innocent 9/11 victims.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Content
PEACE, peace ! I know 'twas brave ;
But this coarse fleece,
I shelter in, is slave
To no such piece.
When I am gone,
I shall no wardrobes leave
To friend, or son,
But what their own homes weave.
2.
Such, though not proud nor full,
May make them weep,
And mourn to see the wool
Outlast the sheep :
Poor, pious wear !
Hadst thou been rich, or fine,
Perhaps that tear
Had mourn'd thy loss, not mine.
3.
Why then these curl'd, puff'd points,
Or a laced story ?
Death sets all out of joint,
And scorns their glory.
Some love a rose
In hand, some in the skin ;
But, cross to those,
I would have mine within.
poem by Henry Vaughan
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To ------
I will not mourn thee, lovely one,
Though thou art torn away.
'Tis said that if the morning sun
Arise with dazzling ray
And shed a bright and burning beam
Athwart the glittering main,
'Ere noon shall fade that laughing gleam
Engulfed in clouds and rain.
And if thy life as transient proved,
It hath been full as bright,
For thou wert hopeful and beloved;
Thy spirit knew no blight.
If few and short the joys of life
That thou on earth couldst know,
Little thou knew'st of sin and strife
Nor much of pain and woe.
If vain thy earthly hopes did prove,
Thou canst not mourn their flight;
Thy brightest hopes were fixed above
And they shall know no blight.
And yet I cannot check my sighs,
Thou wert so young and fair,
More bright than summer morning skies,
But stern death would not spare;
He would not pass our darling by
Nor grant one hour's delay,
But rudely closed his shining eye
And frowned his smile away,
That angel smile that late so much
Could my fond heart rejoice;
And he has silenced by his touch
The music of thy voice.
I'll weep no more thine early doom,
But O! I still must mourn
The pleasures buried in thy tomb,
For they will not return.
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To
I will not mourn thee, lovely one,
Though thou art torn away.
'Tis said that if the morning sun
Arise with dazzling ray
And shed a bright and burning beam
Athwart the glittering main,
'Ere noon shall fade that laughing gleam
Engulfed in clouds and rain.
And if thy life as transient proved,
It hath been full as bright,
For thou wert hopeful and beloved;
Thy spirit knew no blight.
If few and short the joys of life
That thou on earth couldst know,
Little thou knew'st of sin and strife
Nor much of pain and woe.
If vain thy earthly hopes did prove,
Thou canst not mourn their flight;
Thy brightest hopes were fixed above
And they shall know no blight.
And yet I cannot check my sighs,
Thou wert so young and fair,
More bright than summer morning skies,
But stern death would not spare;
He would not pass our darling by
Nor grant one hour's delay,
But rudely closed his shining eye
And frowned his smile away,
That angel smile that late so much
Could my fond heart rejoice;
And he has silenced by his touch
The music of thy voice.
I'll weep no more thine early doom,
But O! I still must mourn
The pleasures buried in thy tomb,
For they will not return.
poem by Anne Brontë
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We mourn the death of the forest universal
The town outside my window moans.
We mourn not for the death of Industry
Nor for the ghost of the English gentle men
We lament for the stars that have been hidden from gazers.
We lament for dead rats trapped electronic cages.
Have we learnt nothing through the ages?
We mourn the death of the forest universal
We mourn the death of culture as media vultures
Prey upon the minds of the young.
Outside the rain takes its toll upon the pavement
Washing away the reminents of Autumns presence.
He awaits in hibernatuin, a soul ready for consideration.
I dreamt last night of a gleaming crown, An Angel
Came forth to say. ‘Embrace the child don’t shoot her down,
Make love throughout the day.
poem by David Lacey
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