The crescent moon peeps,
Through the branches,
To glance at the bowed figure,
beneath the tree.
Enveloped in darkness,
His shoulders rack,
With soundless sobs,
that no one hears.
The wind sighs,
As she blows softly,
Drying his tears,
but to no avail.
Waves of sorrow
wash over him
as he stares at
his infant's grave.
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