Mourning Sickness
Your endless aching prayers
In the middle of the night
To the unseen God
Bring no peace to your heart
And no respite
To a spirit sickened with grief;
The day comes round the same,
The streets, the shops, the glaring light,
People in the day-centre, mouthing empty words,
Dead babies wrapped in newspaper
At the bottom of the garden.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
Added by Poetry Lover
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