Behind the old church lies a garden of souls,
Buried and rooted they rest in their holes.
Most I had known from my earliest years,
Others, so ancient, I shed no more tears.
Some, so far fled, that their headstones are worn,
So weathered you cant read the dates they were born.
Some are quite fresh, cut straight from the quarry,
Replacing the flesh, preserving their glory.
A gravediggers duty will never be done,
A daughter today and tomorrow a son.
My spade breaks the Earth, and as I decline.
I ask myself worried, "who will dig mine"?
Then it all dawned like the first mornings Sun,
Death is the terror that takes everyone.
And I am a spirit with nowhere to hide,
A ghost in the graveyard that hasnt yet died.