On the first day, you were clumsy and awkward. The wrong side of you hardened, like a wounded tree, You were rigid in that vernal desert stillness. You didn't need a rising sun on that first day. What did you need? You collapsed like the snap of a whip. That first day was so hard on you. The other days may have been worse, but that first was the hardest, an uncompromising day.
On the second day you dreamt and wandered. You wandered like an Israelite. You wrestled through forty days of fever dreams. You lay on the cool floor. Your stern father came, contentious. On that second day your father came and you turned him away. Your brother too, came, suborn and pleading. On the second day your brother came. You embraced him and asked him to leave. He said farewell with a kiss on the cheek. On that long second day your lover came. We've never touched, she said, though lovers, you insisted, you were. That night the moon waxed full. That night the fever broke and you awoke. She sat beside you in a chair combing oil through her long hair.
On the third and final day, the sun was weak. It shared the sky with that gravid moon. On that third day you gave fond farewells to everyone. Your eyes were like a calm and kind embrace. You father you forgave. Your brother you forgave. Your lover, you betrothed. And even me, a guilty friend beside you, you blessed with joy.
We mourn joyfully and the moon is brighter still with the blushing of the setting sun.