Who mourns you, monument to peace?
You maintained generosity,
old flower, gifted by the dead,
grown for those who mourn upon stones.
Your bouquets are gone, decayed too,
and your bark scabs are hanging on.
Who mourns you now, you white-boned ghost?
Bleached, near mere marrow, what grieves you?
May your winding limbs give shelter
from the tempest of the torn mind.
You need not answer my questions;
sit with me in living silence,
you resurrection of our departed.
