Below the umbrellas for the dead are empty silences by the sons of kings . The sons no longer have their swords drawn on their fine dressed up bodies .Their king’s pride is all moist with the morning dew. Their swords are rusted by time.
Their women have jumped into their fires. They now live cheek by jowl with the husbands under the umbrellas .They have their own stone umbrellas.In view of the changed circumstances they need no longer cover their heads in modesty.
The Morning is Just a Dream 
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