We cannot bring them back. And yet we sing
or write of them we held but could not own
to honour them we claim, and lie, or moan
our loss aloud. We mourn, and cannot bring
them back. And our first father went to hell
and could not harrow it for her. He tried
and failed, and he looked back, and later died
all but his voice, which sang out like a bell
floating a severed head torn out of flesh.
We do not know the tortured song they heard,
his killers, maddened. Scream or piping bird,
angel or anguish. Music weaves its mesh
of sound from pain and joy, having and lack.
It's beautiful, but cannot bring them back.