The set is dark, technicians hide;
Standing in the spotlight of grief,
All the attention is lit from inside
With no illumination from belief.
The only announcement is silence,
The living standing stunned in their entitlements,
Oppressed with acts instinctual yet incomplete;
And is it consecration or defilement
To go to one’s eternal — minutes like tyrants —
Home, and the mourners go about the streets.