Crosses mark where they now lie,
They're warm and cozy underground,
The rivers flowed for them now dry,
To grief, no more those oceans bound.
Their world is in that tiny room,
They all are sleeping, deaf and dumb,
While they sleep, I dig a tomb,
For one who has not yet come.
My shovel carries all the earth,
Everyday I seem to learn,
It is from this dust comes our birth,
And to this soil we shall return.
Oh curse all these nights and days,
I say to my self the year round,
When they're not digging, these hands pray,
To rest in that sweet, dark ground.
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