we gave names to our dead
no, not names
codes, numbers
to represent our blunders
we planted daisies by the plot
to cover the dreadful
remembrance of the dead
an embarrassment to the living
we engraved lines on stones
dirges, odes and poems
and passers-by notice
only the craftsmanship
by day we ride our horses to town
telling stories of those we buried
and the crowds shed tears
only of laughter
(we have successfully spun
tragedy into comedy)
But by nightfall…
we found pleasure in digging up graves
pits we dug ourselves
to bury what was meant for the soil
and the worms to feast upon
Gravediggers we have become
With a pen for a spade and a sad song
Bringing above ground
The rotting silent corpses
(And each night
They grew smaller
and less pungent)
But by each daybreak
when our bodies are tired of the digging
we surrender to sleep
the dirt, our easy beds
(and when the sun is high
we ride to town again
and by nightfall
we dig some more)
...
if only we saw the crosses
we sculpted on each grave
we wouldn’t have grown old
sleeping on dirt, and with calloused hands
Photo not mine. taken from here
