As the sun rests its weary head upon
horizon´s breast,
I amble in the cemetery, while others are
in beds to rest,
This place where old bats hover & black
cats go to prowl,
Where earth gives way to digging, of pick
& rusty trowel,
Of moonlit marble, stoned angels &
mossy ancient saints,
Urns, names, in copper, that weathered time
now dimly taints,
This place, where at night, green ivy does its
silent creeping,
And from ancient tombs, sobbing cherubs do their
peeping.
I amble around old grassy knolls, reading all
engraving stones,
The fallen soldier in far foreign land, returning
in only bones,
The child asleep, before having lived, leaving
mother bereft,
Parents, grandparents, all gone, now slumbering
in their death,
The unknown without a name, of nowhere &
of no fixed abode,
Leaving no one behind, travelling life´s long
& very lonely road,
And then I spy that tombstone, where the moon
softly shines,
I bend & on looking closer, I see the name
inscribed is mine.
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