at the tap of catalysm we scoop the voice of a nightingale to sing psalms reaching God's bosoms. call it anything you like, a ritual of a mad man because you feel only the insane sprinkle psalms on a dead body instead of tears. we just sing not because we await a miracle shedding off itself from necromancy but because we have been taught to weigh our losses. down this alley, you'll see a man kneeling before his dead son yet, singing psalms because he's other children at home to scatter his rooms unlike his barren next door neighbour.