"Everything has its limit, including sorrow..."
-J. Brodsky
Everything has its limit, including sorrow.
It’s spreading and thinning in three dimensions.
But a trace will remain in the cells of your marrow
And your nerves will be quivering under its tension.
I would wrap your shoulders with a woolen shawl
And gather you in till the mortar has dried,
But the next coming wave is too much to forestall,
And I struggle for words that would help it subside.
Please forgive me for this. Life turned out unfair.
Some five hundred square miles of a rounding blunder.
And I’m blaming myself for the burden you bear
On your shoulders alone, and it tears me asunder.