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.