This is how I understand Grief:
When the crisp and hollow wailing of our neighbor
In front of her dead son
Lost its consonants and the trail of
Vowels seems to me the last echo
In her womb.
This is how I understand Solitude:
I sit in a park bench
And no one sits beside me, save my
Shadow and an echo of vowels ringing
In my ears.
[Nicolas Roerich, Song of Shambhala, 1943]