Tombstones
Tombstones push up out of the
wet spongy grass,
covered with moss.
The names are no longer readable;
the deeply etched letters
long dissolved by hot rain,
and sweeping cold winds.
Under the sprawling branches
of the oak,
the stone markers
are always in the shadows,
speaking of the dead,
screaming out remembrances
of ladies in lace
and knights in armor.
One lone sarcophagus rests
like an unexpected
treasure box,
half – opened,
waiting for Pandora
to awaken the Spirits
who are dreaming about us.
Tombstones push up out of the
wet spongy grass,
covered with moss.
The names are no longer readable;
the deeply etched letters
long dissolved by hot rain,
and sweeping cold winds.
Under the sprawling branches
of the oak,
the stone markers
are always in the shadows,
speaking of the dead,
screaming out remembrances
of ladies in lace
and knights in armor.
One lone sarcophagus rests
like an unexpected
treasure box,
half – opened,
waiting for Pandora
to awaken the Spirits
who are dreaming about us.
I took this photograph in Oxford, England. It reminded me of ancestors, of our lineages that go back centuries -- as far back as Lucy. It reminded me, too, that we are all related, all family no matter how distant. It is a pity that people waste their lives on petty pursuits of power, with the cost of millions of lives so that one person can feel powerful for a nanosecond in the stream of time. As a mother, I know that what I want for my children and for the children of the world (anywhere and everywhere in the world) is to live a peaceful, productive and free life; a life not scarred by the greedy, power hungry, violence of petty people seeking control at the expense of humanity.