They will sing for you tomorrow. In a big cold building, filled with pews and unease. My mother and brother will cry for you, and your son will watch the corner, his eyes never straying and a face of stone. Tomorrow they will toast for their love of you. Lady, tomorrow they will pray for the peace of you. That you sleep easy in both the winter and the summer, below the ground. Tomorrow there will be no dancing. Tomorrow, I'll think of your son with admiration and sorrow. He will make you proud, down here. Tomorrow, I'll observe your daughter, and wish that she knew you well enough. Tomorrow, her glasses will enlarge that which should not be. Her tears were not supposed to be, and you are supposed to be.
Tomorrow I will think of your husband. His quiet nature, perfect English mannerisms and narrow smile. They will be hidden. I hope that he may smile some time in the future. I hope that he will learn to be happy.
I'll pray for you, Lady. For your quiet ascent. But mostly I'll pray for your family. Your husband and your children. I see them suffer, Lady. While you have peace.
Peace you keep, Lady.
Peace you keep.
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