They sleep,
Under the ground
Pressed in cold soil
In layers deep
Below the plough.
Water runs and
Collects the memory
Of their world. Now
In the quiet hours,
Mooncast shadows
Freeze the house and
The river scours
Through our dreams;
Echoes their voices.
The constant murmur
Of their past, streams
Across the years,
Into our lives.
Their spirits whisper.
We cry their tears.