every time another one falls dead,
they repeat our story.
your body, although a distant memory, flashes before my eyes.
broken, bloodied, and beaten.
even the beautiful flower
could not hide the ichor flowing out of the wound.
did they not learn from the tragedy
of when the discus split your head in two?
the ambrosia, the finest drink of my kin,
numbs this heartache.
divine attention is our noose.
from my palace in the sky,
i watch our fate befall on the youth.
naive, just like you and me.
these immortal hands of mine can do nothing
but hold them tight as they weep for their dead.