Jassy Melson
10-16-2011, 06:28 PM
Stone monuments keep their hushed vigil,
rearing upward toward the heavens;
in mute marble, solitarily standing,
they bear undeniable witness
to the riddle of life.
Below those silent granite slabs
remains of dreamless sleepers lie;
some waiting for their maker
to arrive out of the east,
others waiting for nothing
but eternity.
All together
under Greenwood's grass.
Apart from that city of the dead
a vault lies--embedded
in its own little island of cleared earth.
Opened and ransacked long ago
by vandals, or by the elements,
the crumbled crypt squats
in decayed elegance,
a violated tomb, a tourist site,
vacated by its inhabitant
who has gone,
God knows where.
And watching over all of Greenwood
the Confederate Memorial stands
in all its grave glory, in all its faded gray,
looking for all the world
like one of Lee's ancient grizzled veterans
who refuses to yield, or die,
even to this day.
Under Greenwood's grass
southern son and daughters
sleep their painless slumber. Only for the living
will the south rise again. Huddled
in their ultimate embrace
the careless dead know nothing
of rebellion, victory, defeat,
of a resurrection or a fall from grace.
Free from all vanity, desire, and rage,
they, wrapped in gray swaddling clothes,
only continue their decaying
and crumbling into dust.
Some waiting for their maker
to arrive out of the east,
others waiting for nothing
but eternity.
All together
under Greenwood grass.
rearing upward toward the heavens;
in mute marble, solitarily standing,
they bear undeniable witness
to the riddle of life.
Below those silent granite slabs
remains of dreamless sleepers lie;
some waiting for their maker
to arrive out of the east,
others waiting for nothing
but eternity.
All together
under Greenwood's grass.
Apart from that city of the dead
a vault lies--embedded
in its own little island of cleared earth.
Opened and ransacked long ago
by vandals, or by the elements,
the crumbled crypt squats
in decayed elegance,
a violated tomb, a tourist site,
vacated by its inhabitant
who has gone,
God knows where.
And watching over all of Greenwood
the Confederate Memorial stands
in all its grave glory, in all its faded gray,
looking for all the world
like one of Lee's ancient grizzled veterans
who refuses to yield, or die,
even to this day.
Under Greenwood's grass
southern son and daughters
sleep their painless slumber. Only for the living
will the south rise again. Huddled
in their ultimate embrace
the careless dead know nothing
of rebellion, victory, defeat,
of a resurrection or a fall from grace.
Free from all vanity, desire, and rage,
they, wrapped in gray swaddling clothes,
only continue their decaying
and crumbling into dust.
Some waiting for their maker
to arrive out of the east,
others waiting for nothing
but eternity.
All together
under Greenwood grass.