Grave.

Here lies the unsung melodies of birds,
For some were harvested just too early,
And others dillydallied till death knocked.
Here lies the wail of the unjust,
For disease and war took them,
And the law decided they take the fall.
Here lies the dreams and goals of nations,
The transformation of kingdoms now lie in tombs.
For the one who had it knew not that he had,
And some knew but no aid to make manifest.
The secret of the burning bush lies not in the flames you see,
Nor in the things it turned to ashes.
For the secret thereof lies in what made it burn,
And what made what made it burn.
Hanging owls on the lonely dried branches,
Now sings ode to the hindered dreams of men.
For at least if no song was sung while living,
Consolation melodies shall be sung by the dark owls of the earth.
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