Passing through the stones,
I see the names,
That will never be spoken again,
They cross only my lips,
The trees whisper their tales of happiness and saddness,
Speaking their long hidden stories,
but no one listens to their wisdom,
feel their once so real pain,
They dance upon the frozen grass,
Not feeling its chill,
Dancing the dance of enternity,
Until the end of time comes,
Their hands rest upon my shoulders,
Leading me further into their forever more home,
Opening to me what they need to show,
What no one else will hear,
They lay with me,
In the home of their sharing their chronicles,
But to others, I am alone,
They speak of their pasts,
And confess what they never could in life,
I weep as I am seen to others as alone,
But these people still hurt,
Though hearts stopped,
their souls still crying,
I meet them in this silent field,
Above the only things they could ever call their own,
And wish I could see their faces,
See their smiles and tears,
Yet here I sit,
Illusioning the onlookers that are seeking proof,
Keeping the truth within me,
Of these silent mourners,
The wind dances around me,
In this sacred place,
Silence singing the song of the forgotten,
I hear whips of lost laughter,
As I see the letters etched in their final stone,
Knowing there is no one left that knew them,
Only this stranger,
Who is the last to listen.