Not shrouds of silk, nor funeral black,
But garments are worn, where shadows track.
The weight of loss, a heavy cloak,
Draped o'er our hearts, a mournful folk.

Each thread, a memory bittersweet,
A whispered laugh, or shuffling feet.
A smile was long gone, a tear that fell,
These clothes of death, the stories tell.

Yet, in their folds, a strength takes hold,
A love that lingers, brave and bold.
Though shadows cling, a light breaks through,
We'll wear these clothes, and see us through.