"Joy knows, and Longing has accepted,— only Lament still learns . . ." — Rilke Friday's Lament goes out to the street, lies down next to the dead child. Lament claws open her breast. Darkness drops from the sky, crouches, croaking, over the child. Lament is dumb with horror; her mouth is a jagged Why? Saturday's Longing paces the catacombs, its damp walls glistening. He is an eye braced wide in the darkness, gathering possible light. He leans, listening — breath held — toward the When. Sunday's Joy trembles, She looks for her assailants but does not find them. She puzzles at the How. She touches the warm earth, she laughs! She throws her arms wide and bows to the heavens. "We shall dance! I am alive! We are still here."