Wrinkled he kneels amid the flowers,
You must login to vote
counting not lifes sunny hours.
His child's ghost frolics round,
memories lost are now found.
The mother, his wife, watches her play,
quickly they fade from the light of day.
One loss, for that is life,
two, the pain becomes a knife.
His cheeks, down do the tears go,
why does God mock him so?