I often wander out there in the graveyard,
like some spirit longing to escape from limbo,
pacing paths in the dirt between markers,
where I’ve buried too many beloved bones;
Every spirit belonging to every ghost,
even those bones turned to ash,
seem to grasp and reach from between,
a far-away future and most distant past;
the moon beams become enlightening,
through smears of the tears in my eyes,
the metallic taste of every drop of blood,
becomes a bile slowly starting to rise;
I wander out there through Eternity,
as the exiled daughter of some cruel God,
I wonder at heaven’s sheer insensitivity,
and at the end, can’t help but to applaud;
at the vastness surrounding such emptiness,
such an ice-cold touch of our creators’ hand,
the Dead have been warmed through the passing,
and the Living remain frozen in this wasteland.
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