With labyrinths of thought and blind alleys of regret
Openly carried like scarfs,
In their hands some mechanical bouquets
That should last all forgotten visits.
The bereaved bearing their tears and yokes,
Dark faces stung by rays, trampling through mounds of silent graves
Stuffed with remains of those presumed rested.
Their sweat drips on dust
And out here many might have felt immune to death
With wild imaginings of longevity -
But dreadful of death’s inimitability.
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