Where are all the graves?
I see so many more flowerbeds
than markers of where souls once lay.
The blossoms sprout all about,
so green and full,
and happy again
from the warm tears that nursed them.
What happens after so many years
when the final remains are absorbed?
And nothing remains –
nothing but perhaps an idea that some soul once thought,
one soul once loved.
Who are we left?
At the end of the day,
the last man who stares up upon his stony fate,
what will he say?
How will he see the valleys of graves left behind
and the sweet flower fields blanketing their forgotten beds?
Perhaps he will remark
with the same tear that the first soul poured into the Earth
when he planted his own soul
in that great green Earth
so many years ago,
so many green flowerbeds ago.