A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

When we had first studied this poem, we had all instantly fallen in love with the essence of the work, the intricacies of the layering that Dylan Thomas displayed, today, i understand the emotion, perhaps for the first time.
As DT perfectly sums it up "After the first death there is no other"

We need to celebrate life and celebrate it well, lest we are prey to the intricate larger design of life.
Unfortunately, what we have today is what is called a pregnant poise, silence that eats up what remains of our soul(s).


May we have the strength to live through this ordeal, this senseless existence where we grow our callow selves with the hope that we may engineer our life through the bane of existence, adroitly.


Alas, we realise the folly of our belief, of even the slightest moments when we have felt in control.

The day i wrote this, almost a couple of months back, i was numb yet raw, stung yet hopeful.
Today its been replaced by a stoic acceptance of the wheels and the three ladies.

May the yarn still be spinning