Weary stones by hundreds winters scolded, so wounded Still serving the memoirs of the bones beneath Before us, glum theyre gathered Assembled yet lone among a vast sylvan company
From this backdrop, which we made our pulpit Deep sermons of solace we bring to the mournfuls: Those pasts selves of ours, hovering upon The open coffins, not unlike wistful ghosts In a wake for their youth longings
'As the rite commence L5d by a somber silence An invitation w5 bring to our hearts: To make the tears of joy and ardor Belonged to the days of yore Stronger than the ones we now pour in grief For what we unawarely became'
A stifled start shakes the quiet That we evoked, absorbed in scorn Coffins await to be filled With the old winters vestige:
'Thoughts and relics from distant ages of ourselves.' Times to be praised and greeted With a worthy burial A procession of grieved shapes and shovels Now take place towards the tombs That claim their guests Each body faces its own grave Raising choirs of laments And a sough of eulogies too In emotive entwines Futile mundane prayers
'We stand touched Like statues all carved in pathos The intimate being of ours Has answered the obsequies Giving itself to eternity Here and forever It's finally immortalized Within the latter years We truly lived A dismal concert of spadefuls Giving back the soil to the pits Brings the last farewell Slowly we now leave This overgrown graveyard Fulfilling the ritual' Well be waiting for the time When the ritual of our lives Shall be fulfilled too As well join this graveyard's undergrowth