He sits with a stoic's resistance,
        his son in the casket lies there.
        No line of a tear mars his visage-
        the man with the Thousand yard stare.


        He sits in the front row of mourners,
        His dear sobbing wife by his side
        in silence he keeps his sad vigil
        and stares up at Christ crucified.
    

        The mourners pass by him in silence,
        touch his hand or say meaningless words,
        for his part he stares straight on through them
        as if nothings felt, nothings heard.

        The Parson commands us to silence
        and struggles to lead us in prayer-
        but half of the room has forgotten the words
        like the man with the thousand yard stare
        

        Death is my race's core competence
        dealing with life, we're but fair,        
        but none living today keeps sorrow at bay
        not the man with the thousand yard stare.