EULOGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD
Some loves we bury
Six feet under; buried deep,
Hail storms and thunder.
Some loves we bury
In shallow graves,
We walk away;
Though the dead
Plead and mumble,
Tongues pressing
Wet through
The dusty gravel.
We walk, we run;
We flee, we travel
Always away; because
Some loves we bury
In shallow graves,
And though the corpse
Is cold and still,
We dare not turn
Least we see
Through the dirt
Carelessly strewn
The delicate tumble
Of fingers around
A pleading palm,
Still offering love,
Begging tenderness
As an alm.
Manuela Cardiga
