Tombstones

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.
 

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.