Flowers—

they bloom a day,

then to our graves.

Wilted, these flowers;

still fervent, the bees

at Mother’s grave.

We crowded in—

sons, sons-in-law, grandsons—

to carry her here.

I am orphaned,

though a man—dead:

Father, now Mother.

In this

verdant valley they had farmed,

we buried them.

Winds—into the sky

blow ashes, dust. Clouds, gather:

rain on these graves tears.

The silence

of the dead haunts me—

I want shouts

from Elysium:

Styx bridged, Persephone

with her mother.

Are you not sated?

O! Death—mercy, have mercy:

bring them all back.

In rows, facing east,

we bury them—come, morning:

banish sundown.