Old
As I said once to the rotting dead of past,
What stories are told by lips of mold at last?
Battles and defeat, a wanton retreat, a stabbing cuirass?
Said He to I, “No, I died, so simple and crass.”
A love forlorn? A heart a torn perhaps? Suicide pact?
“Nay” said Him, to my chagrin, “I haven’t such tact.”
Then please, tell me, just how it be, your body’s cold?
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Things of stone will crumble when,
We do not know why we built them.
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