If he prayed, he prayed for light. Not for the sun, for that fell too much.
But to see again the glint running along the handlebar of his son's bike.
One not yet bought but feared as given by another father.
If he loved, it was not death, nor country, nor others fallen, but his mother's ashtray, and the ghost of smoke where ashes dropped.
If he cried, it was not for Fate, but for peach blossoms falling unseen and not forgotten.
If he cried, he did not cry as one forgot, but to create the rain falling, so many drops, enough to make a lake.
If he cried, or loved or prayed it was not for something he remembered
But for what is not to be forgotten. - Charles Bechtel