A wind blows softly
over the many shed tears.
The names carved in stone;
witnesses of their existence.
Simple words assign them,
equalled in the loneliness
of forgotten graves.
Their only companion
the chirps of a lost bird.

In their sadness of cold rock
the withered flowers remember
the day when they blossomed,
and with their aroma
they honoured the fallen ones.
Forgotten sighs lie
on the eternal beds.
And an old lament
is the lullaby the wind sings.