If grief wore truth in coloured thread.
Would it be blue, where sailors bled?
Or would it hush in solemn grey,
Where tears, like steam drift far away,

Perhaps it burns in candlelight,
A fleeting orange, soft and bright,
Or gold, the hue of armour worn,
To guard the heart that's soft and torn,

My candles are not yours to claim,
Your salt is not my grief to name.
For sorrow moves with different tide -
Mine walks where fire and faith abide.

I do not have the luxury of long sorrow.
These are hands to steady, and strength to borrow.
The weight I carry cannot wait -
For Justice walks with steady pace.

But do not mistake my silence for absence,
Or my steadiness for indifference.
Emotion, though it burns so bright,
Must never tip the scales of Right.

But grief is not a polished vow,
Nor something I can tame or bow,
So let me light my candles here,
And mourn the lives I held most dear.

Let me light my candles while I can,
Though some may spit, and others damn.
While you cast your salt upon the sea,
And rage to set your spirit free.

I mourn as I must, you rage as you must,
Two paths that keep a sacred trust.
Two paths of pain, yet not untrue.
Your pain is yours. I honour you.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Glacian, in the year 981 AF.