Dust / Tears

My flesh but dust, my bed of tears,
Torn open by some thirty years
And five of memories that meet
Their end and add no more.

For life is met with this defeat:
A death, with flesh in fast retreat
Into the ground, to be the dust
From which it came once more.

And as a son, I know I must
In grief of death, the Father trust
Until my dust its dying nears
And tears are nevermore.