“They are counting the dead. They ask the old to die willingly. Sign here, please. There will be no mourners, no funeral. Wind is our choir, owl our plainsong. Birds sing our penillion. Silence in the first spring leaves is prayer, last rights and requiem. - The Hours: Sext” DeathMourningCovid 19PandemicBereavementLockdownCovid 19 PoetryCovid 19 Lockdown Book:The Silence Source: The Silence