"After the first death, there is no other." Least not for the daughters and sons wrapped gently by earth's cool cocoon Those left near the mounds, gaunt and quiet, return time again, sinful and sorry, angry at the fury of life, the rate at which it burns. Theirs are guilty deaths of continuation, a chalice of blood and fire, sustenance for fornication, vigor and nightly schemes. Yet, here, among grassy Fields and weeping angels, a silent empty penance must be paid. While corpses rot below, they murmur supple hopes and fumble with shadows, knowing deaths To come, least not their own. No, Dylan, your first death was far before the grave. Mourning is a pause and timid acceptance of the many deaths yet to come Least not your own.