The Fountain of Youth

January 13th, 2019

The cemetery is quiet tonight,
As all nights.
And wispy clouds sit in the sky,
Like spectators in ethereal grandstands.
The grave holds no secrets,
Only death and his brothers,
Silence and pity.
And while cattle groan in the distance,
And the crickets scratch away at the night
With wooden pick axes,
The dead lie, immortal at last,
Their substance in memory and unfading flames,
And legacies carved into the very flesh of the earth.
They have found the fountain of youth,
These weary souls,
And at the end of their sorrowful travels
They have collapsed into the waters of life
That Cortes and his conquistadors
Searched for in those wild Incan woods.
They are no more physical than Thought,
Or abstraction,
Nor less real than the mossing stone
Atop their rotting heads.
And as I pass the shadowed lawns
Where memories go to lie,
I nod,
And slow a little
That I may linger one moment longer
In the garden of the dead.

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