The Cemetery

Away, from the noisy streets, away,
he enters the tall, solemn gates;
before him the mud and dirt encircle
the green shrubs and the engraved plates.

As the army, in squares they stand,
if Vulcan had blessed her sculptor’s hand;
yet the breeze greets him with a gentle embrace,
the scent of soil and cedar, no perfumer shall trace.

A squirrel gallops across the rocky road,
the sweet grass fed by our ancestor’s abode;
the starlings cheer in this gravely refuge,
jolly songs accompanying a desolate ode.

Two squirrels play on that grey, decaying stone,
chasing around on the trunks of forgotten bones;
his childish eyes wonder at this ragged cone,
reminiscent of guardians he had for eternity known.

He paced along on these dusty trails,
murmurs from the past spoke of unspeakable tales;
in our fleeting souls hide history’s stains,
our ghostly friends forged our earthly chains.

Monumental — are these tablets of abandoned names,
and one day his own shall be ashed in flames;
‘O is that you, the great Prof. Dr. Dr.?
And won’t the children sing of you, Herr Mueller?’

His trusty giants repell the heavenly fires,
his dead friends serenade with silent lyres;
the comforting air of this barren art,
in peace he again finds his forsaken heart.

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Published in: on 08/04/2018 at 7:13 PM  Leave a Comment  

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