The graveyard, it is still and silent,
The sound stops outside its walls,
The wind, it whistles overhead
Masking far-away birds’ calls.
Graves line up in quiet neat rows,
Waiting for their turn
To be delivered, head, heart and soul
To Heaven’s cloud or Hell’s fiery burn.
A weeping willow stands aside
Her sheltering arms hang
Protective, over her Children,
Remembering the church bells’ clang.
The soil, it is brown and rich,
Not lifeless, like the place.
Fed and fertilised with bodies,
After roots break through the Case.
There is a certain type of air
That hangs heavy, like a cloud.
It can be found nowhere else,
It makes my heart beat loud.
It smells like earth, it smells like rain
Though not in a peaceful way.
It smells like moss and long neglect;
It smells like night, not day.
Perhaps it is the great grey clouds
That seem to hang ’round here.
But I think it is more than that,
Something that is called “fear”.
I do not fear the bodies,
Nor the lives that they led.
Rather I fear the sour memories;
Will they seep into my head?
The tall stone walls, enclosing it
Have seen much throughout the years,
Things too horrid to mention:
Grave robbers, anger, tears.
I went there again today
It was about to rain.
But someone had placed a bunch of flowers
Against another someone’s name.
I looked around; I was alone;
They must be long-gone.
I looked again at the flowers
They shone like pale bright dawn.
I stepped cautiously up to the grave,
Tried to read the name:
Our loved and loving son (it said)
“Come smiling once again”.
Nothing lasts forever, son,
You know that more than most.
But one thing will last forevermore:
The memory of your ghost.
That was all; it ended there,
I was quite bemused.
Perhaps when they asked for his name
The family just refused.
I visited the graveyard again the next day
And saw the oddest thing:
Though I was sure I hadn’t imagined it
The mysterious grave was gone.
I wonder where the grave has gone –
I’ll search through the others
But the grave is nowhere to be seen,
The memories have been smothered.
Nothing lasts forever, son,
You know that more than most.
But one thing will last forevermore:
The memory of your ghost.
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Parts of Me
الشعرWhenever you read one of my poems You hold a part of me, And it hides in my brain or beating heart Now I give it to thee. You may hold this precious Part For a while, at least. So treat it well, respect my thoughts, And there shall be a peace. For i...
