I am going to your grave today,
with flowers orange, yellow and red.
I'll throw away the faded ones
and leave fresh ones instead.
I'll stand above the place you lay,
placed there a while ago.
And once again my heart will brake,
and unchecked tears will flow.
With gentle fingers I'll caress,
your name carved in the stone.
Then brush away the fallen leaves,
November winds have blown.
I'll dry my eyes, I'll say a prayer,
and as I raise my head.
Another grieving mother has just
tucked her child in bed.