The withering women Tremble as they stare Out the window Past the home, hill, and horizon Crying secretly as gold is scraped together From the remains of the child Prepared and presented by the father The impure handled by the Impure Offered and burned in remembrance Without tear or shudder The cycle is never finished Ashes to dust to plant to mouth to life All is for good Stare at the river, then go home Everyone is dry All is for good