A precession walks by,
There’s a woman beating the ground,
Meanwhile, a small, unlived life,
Is nowhere to be found.
These quiet places,
Where stories are wailed,
They leave no traces,
Of life beheld,
By Grand multitudes,
Who leaves only stones behind,
To hear whispered platitudes,
From those never satisfied.
The earth is lined with bones,
Laid by war, disease, and misfortune,
From those who reigned on thrones,
To the widow and the orphan.
None cry out from beyond the vale,
Their rest must be attended,
They are deaf to the cries of those who failed,
To the anger of the offended.
But what of it?
Those fallen by war and happenstance,
Those who held our pity and displeasure,
Those we barely gave a passing glance,
The widow, the orphan, the tyrants,
They now rest forever,
So let the living enjoy the silence.