Mother dies, a small shrunken frame
Of loose skin and fragile bones,
No longer a name
but fragments of memory
in silence that follows the dwindling tone
of a bell struck at sunrise or sunset.
 
Mother dies, inanimate, but
soon melting into essence,
no more a woman
where there is eerie music
unheard by the living or a mirror that shows
us death and our victory over death.

Mother dies, goes on her way, but of course,
her horses keep on running round and round.