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Thursday, July 10, 2014


Boxes in the ground?
What a score that is.
Waiting for the horses drawing caissons,
but the rest of the family is already scattered around.
Stones of the mothers.
Stones of the fathers.
Stones of children who died too young.
And stones turned black with soot.
Where are the trees?
Where are the roots?
The grass is dead and dying,
and there are no new green shoots.
It's a dark day for the dead and dying.
Though some things glow at night.
When the cemeteries are full of stones.
It is too late to set things right.
Christopher H. Holte

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