Conducting Our Own Funeral

Weary stones by hundreds winters scolded, so wounded

Still serving the memoirs of the bones beneath

Before us, glum they’re gathered

Assembled yet lone among a vast sylvan company

From this backdrop, which we made our pulpit

Deep sermons of solace we bring to the mournfuls

Those past’s selves of ours, hovering upon

The open coffins, not unlike wistful ghosts

In a wake for their youth longings

As the rite commence

Led by a somber silence

An invitation we bring to our hearts

To make the tears of joy and ardor

Belonged to the days of yore

Stronger than the ones we now pour in grief

For what we unawarely became

A stifled start shakes the quiet

That we evoked, absorbed in scorn

Coffins await to be filled

With the old winters vestige

Thoughts and relics from distant ages of ourselves

Times to be praised and greeted

With a worthy burial

A procession of grieved shapes and shovels

Now take place towards the tombs

That claim their guests

Each body faces its own grave

Raising choirs of laments

And a sough of eulogies too

In emotive entwines

Futile mundane prayers

We stand touched

Like statues all carved in pathos

The intimate being of ours

Has answered the obsequies

Giving itself to eternity

Here and forever

It’s finally immortalized

Within the latter years

We truly lived

A dismal concert of spadefuls

Giving back the soil to the pits

Brings the last farewell

Slowly we now leave

This overgrown graveyard

Fulfilling the ritual

We’ll be waiting for the time

When the ritual of our lives

Shall be fulfilled too

As we’ll join this graveyard's undergrowth