These days there seem to be no victories,
No marches in triumph between a roaring crowd:
Only the sad parade of sorrow,
The sounds of pain keening on a carrying breeze.
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I've had so many of these conversations in my life. There is an ironic beauty in joining in sorrow.
That word 'keening' always slices me. Ahhh, he's just waiting his turn; I know him too.