The strong wind of sorrow sweeps past them.
Battering them to the dust of death.
They march. Many. Separate. Alone.
They weather the same storms simultaneously. No less alone.
Each too worried by woe to see through the rain of tears.
Too sorry to see the multitude sorrowful around him.
Many. Separate. Alone.
Many burdens carried by many men,
Each too good to ask for help from friends,
too terrible to accept help from God.
Alone they march.
Together in the storm, separated only by wind.
And yet, alone.
Angry that no one sees their grief.
But blind to grief not their own.
They wish to be seen but not to reveal.
They wish that others knew, but will not teach, cannot.
Too painful to speak of sorrows carried alone.
Too painful to admit a burden too heavy to carry.
Thus they march alone.
Pretending that they are free they immortalize their chains.
Unable to free themselves, unwilling to free another.
They march till they can march no longer.
