The Son

Out of the heap of smoldering ashes,
An old woman with the moisty lashes,
Making furrows long she did search,
The burnt bones: the victims of clashes.

Bursting into tears she did place,
Them upon her eyes and embrace,
Burning herself into the melting fire,
The wretch mother in vain did trace.

She did weep, groan and moan,
That she remained behind all alone,
Suppressing sighs, placed upon eyes,
Thinking, it might be her son’s bone.