At The Graves By Night

Stumbling through the threads and paths,

In striations, running over the wooden expanse,

Lit by scattered lights, piercing the twilit air,

Whose thick, calming breath runs in between the thick branches

Stretching over stone, faces and figures crouching over

A name in every corner and crevice.

 

How long has it been since I have spoken to you? Seen you?

The uneven steps pull forward, slow and stop

For a couple of minutes

Brushing off the leaves, untangling the vines which have

started to hide the name.

Blackened matches lay scattered for a minute only,

quickly swept off the sacred stone.

 

We stand, half-circle, bring our hands together in front of us.

To remember. For a moment, to honor.

The fake flowers have begun to fade,

 it might be real ones this year.

We share pleasant memories, and the candles are lit.

On uneven levels, a horizon of fires,

Souls burning intensely, but solemnly

Under stubborn, wooden elbows,

Over tombstones

And the flow, moving on, across a fresh, but calm and mellow air,

The flow of people stepping forward,

The only way they can; across a dark field

Towards their death.