You sit in silence, death upon your hat.
A breeze dares to disturb you.
Pasteur holds all the graves, even the child
long young.

Trees hold carcasses, their lovely limbs
drooping for one touch.

I wonder how many souls have you seen, and
what now occupies you.

Mows now wonder your abode, births now
inhabit.

The seasons drift across your eyes, and now you
sleep, parts of your strewn, death now waking...