Helenale Brown earth is piled high around the ground’s open mouth. The procession approaches. What are you doing here? The mouth speaks, The hole in the ground questions, The earth queries. The earth cries: Go back! You are not ready for me. Your time was not appointed. Why are you here? She hanged herself from the branch of a tree next to the mother river. Her ripe young body dangled on a cold winter night; Her life force flowed out through the soles of her feet, Her youth flowed out through her ankles, Her promise flowed out through the tips of her toes! Her gentleness flowed out through her hands, Her kindness to others through her finger tips. The love that others had for her Dripped, Unheeded, Off the strands of her dark hair. The earth cries out once more: Go! Take thee hence! Be gone! Do not come to me. You are too young to come to me. Too young to sleep in my cold breast. Too young to moulder. Too young to rot. So Go! Return to the living. I refuse you! But it is not for the earth to refuse. She has not The capacity to refuse, Only to weep.