Thursday, July 28, 2011

Whispers from the grave


Moss-covered tombstones, crumbling with age, being returned to the earth.

















They do not leave
They are not gone
They look upon us still

They walk among the valleys now

They stride upon the hill

Their smile is in the summer sky
Their grace is in the breeze
Their memories whisper in the grass
Their calm is in the trees




















Poem: Anon

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