Welcome to your final place,
The place where you shall rest to
waste,
Of tombs with stones, and fences rusty,
Of fields of gravel, cold and musty,
Rows of plots, both large and small,
The leaves alongside you die in fall,
Monuments plead epitaphs,
Beside you twisted Reapers laugh.
Wind blows by, each passing hour,
You know your mind is losing power,
See the tombstones, cracked and grey,
Where childen stay away to play,
Vines that take eternity to unravel,
Choke the trees to end life's battle,
The light before you begins to fade,
Buried beneath the Undertaker's
spade.
Crosses lined up, row by row,
Mark out those who rest below,
Guns and bombs have wiped out men,
Soon some more will lay with them,
Victims of all death's great skill,
Day after day, undisturbed and still,
A thousand horrors, a thousand fates,
All locked within these cemetery
gates.
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