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Home » Poetry » Issue 1 » The cemetery

The cemetery

The bridge to long gone men
Is made of white clouds and truth.
We cross to them
Through bits and pieces of memories
Who could think men can turn into
dry bones?
Flesh turning into sap and dust.
Like wind particles.
Even hyenas don’t laugh here.

On windless days, the grave is sick
The sun burns the dry grass of the cemetery
Corroding the metal coffins
The shelter of souls smitten
Abandoned,
But not forgotten.
For they once loved and laughed like you.

On this land,
The shadows are long as of dreams,
Walking and talking too.
And passing one another like nightmares.
The grave has no visible tears and hunger.
Down there, they walk on the other side.
Forgotten and unknown by the living.
In their home upside down.
The land of the living dead.
Where they live on.