That grave-stones cluster on the hill’s cold brow
and wanderers are lost without a sound
beneath the moon, when the hard winds blow.
I hid here in the grass, and hide here now.
Little one, what have you seen, and where?
The dead and deathless wail upon the air;
the living will not go abroad for fear,
but build their fires up high, and sit, and stare
into the dark. I have been there.
Little one, what meaning do you find?
I wish to live, to live! Death is not kind.
The dying do not leave this world behind.
Image “Single Grave 5” by Don (Flickr user fallingwater123) is used pursuant to the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license (CC by 2.0). Color and contrast of this image have been altered from the original.