Poetry
Beauty in Death
Why oh why does the graveyard sing?
Sorrow, dread, loss all pose languishing.
Grief, pain above rotting decay
Mourners ‘frain from eating,
While others eat their dead.
Forlorn, disgust, and panic should reign,
Yet far from this message
The yard’s oddly estranged.
Fear and longing no longer entice
Instead they are molded into a
Unique paradise.
The peace and silence do beguile
Perhaps is why the Spaniards smile.
Day of the saints- a day of praise?
The youth are joyous while
They think their time is far.
The elder ladies, whose time is near,
Also display neither
Trembles, regrets, nor fear.
Rather a smile shines their wrinkled face
Seems naive? Or wise to discover- all
End without a trace.
Spain’s dirt plots encompassed by wall
Stacked with corpses, concerningly tall.
Scotland’s mud and vibrant grass are
Cobblestoned for death’s call.
The decorum differs:
The rich have stones and even catacombs
But the poor have none, so
They simply die unknown.
Inequality roars, echoes fear
Some spend fortunes desperate to escape:
We’re all dirt and mere. Money cannot make your life sing,
In the graveyard, our names do not ring.
Dead and living are robbed of life.
So what could these plots bring?
Orphans, widows, childless-
What the tomb takes, it also creates.
Above alone, below
Banded- oneness awaits.
Together forgotten, missing breath,
Swept by wind, our names crumble, so we
Foster life in death.
A sense of comfort radiates
Joy, beauty; the darkness it abates.
This place, oh so serened, solely swells
Delight beyond the gates.
Replenishing stolen,
Dismal lives. Calling… Slowly allures…
Absorbed death into ground
A paradox- the cure?
Lonesome souls have new hope. Come one day
Fate’s the same: recycled, life-giving,
Beautiful decay.
So this is why the graveyard sings,
Not for money, power, or a king.
A fountain of refuge for who
With the world are wrestling
Here lacks comparison;
No weight of stress, potential, or time
Like an oasis, here
Stillness and freedom chime.
So, what for you will the graveyard bring?
Despair? Or joy? Realizing we
Are not anything.