Let the dead bury the dead
And let there be a sweet song as they work
Skeletons, flesh the rags on the
poor man’s back
Reaping the last harvest
As he sleeps beneath the comforting
Glow of a headstone
A strange sight, surely
Without the music
Fingers, once gentle in their touch
Wipe the sweat from his brow
Words from his parched tongue
“Let him sleep,” they say
“He must work in the morning.”
Choirs whisper lullabies to the clouds,
The sleeping man, clutching his head in anguish,
Crying “Please, please,”
“Let them sing.”