Here, in their final quiet, the singers lie.
True to the dead, to the living true.
The grass is growing as it always grew
Drinking every human cry
Like the rain of summer reaching the repose
Of singers long out of sight.
Will we ever know what the grass knows
Flourishing in green wisdom, green delight?
When delusions of communication cease
And we are victims once again
Of rumors the gossip wind is bringing
We’ll celebrate the singers in their peace
Because above the graves of men
The happy grass is singing.