Sonnet: two hundred and thirty nine

(another trans woman was found murdered and dumped in a bin yesterday)

The cold November morning dawns too bright;
a day like this one should have leaden skies,
be raining with the tears that blind our eyes,
our grief and anger darkening our sight.

The leaves lie at our feet, while those unshed
but golden, catch the sunlight like the flames
of candles lit as we recite the names,
in memory, of our loved and honoured dead.

Our fallen, as the leaves, though not in war
but murdered and discarded with the trash
they are regarded as; or burned to ash
with loved ones; shot, stabbed, beaten; many more

who met their deaths in agony and fear.
We mourn them, in their hundreds, every year.

(edited to fix the final couplet.)