She looked in the fireplace mirror,

Face lit with reflections of flame,

And thought of the dead, and the living,

Of the proud now buried in shame,

 

Around her in corners and shadows,

Sat quietly, as if undisturbed,

People that seemed to be strangers,

For none dared utter a word.

 

And the priest looked so old, and so broken,

He could cast no magical spell-

For the light of the flames were a darkness

And he wondered if they were in hell.

 

A cat curled up in a corner,

Content with a memory or two,

Of the one they now so mourned for,

To whom they had never been true,

 

As two white scented candles,

Sat graced by two flowers of light,

On top of an elegant casket,

A bed for that final good night.

 

She looked in the fireplace mirror,

At the woman that once she had been,

And remembered a vision of Dante,

She once, had seen, in a dream,

 

‘Til the priest ashamedly muttered,

“Let’s pray, what else can we do?”

And the mourners took up their sad poses,

As each thought of their plans for the day.