It's deathly still
In this deathly place.
Gravestones as monuments
To the dead mans grace.
Their memories
Chiseled in stone.
To be remembered
When they have long gone.
Their remaining existence,
Marked where they lie.
At the foot of a grave
I kneel...I cry.
For who do we cry,
If not for ourselves?
Is it not our own loss
On which we dwell?
The deeds of the dead,
While life was in full bloom...
Is that not enough
To replace all that gloom?
When someone dies
That has grown on my heart,
And in my life,
They have played a big part...
Is that not enough
To bring a smile to my lips?
Must I torture my soul
With a mental whip?
Must I cry so much
That my eyes run dry?
Must I not
Ask myself why?
I must conclude,
If you were to ask,
That the memories of the dead
Lie not in that cask.
They are alive
Where they should be.
In my mind and
Comforting me.
Note: Written in 2007
https://pixabay.com/de/mensch-mann-trauer-traurigkeit-tod-2829510/
