A land slumbers under a blanket of coffeed weeds
With lashings of withered wreaths numb on gravestones
A broken fence, a lone gatekeeper, a shroud of trees
Keep the memoir of ghosts who can only sleep
When relatives insist on visiting, bringing new flowers
Which they then water with tears and dress in silence

The broken branches which are gathered under trees
The faded epitaphs speaking to the sun about memory
The dried leaves cracking with the reticence of rainfall
The shade from the high weeds crowded into themselves
The people crouching to straighten fallen headstones
On their beloveds’ graves, then murmur their departure

The footfalls fading from the streets
The trees departing from the avenues
The sweat evaporating from the skin
Remote traffic sounding like gossip

A lone gatekeeper standing by the gate
Adding up thoughts of differences and loss.