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Beneath the earth, where shadows sleep,
A silent story begins to seep.
The grave, a cradle of dreams unspoken,
Holds shattered lives and bonds once broken.
Its mouth, a doorway carved in stone,
Speaks of journeys taken alone.
Yet in its silence, truths are told,
Of fleeting youth and hearts have grown cold.
A garden of time, where memories bloom,
Each flower a life, each scent a doom.
Its soil drinks tears, its roots entwine,
The hopes and fears of the mortal spine.
The grave is a book with no last page,
A stage for spirits, a timeless cage.
It gathers all—both kings and slaves—
And keeps their secrets in its waves.
But not all is somber, not all is still;
The grave surrenders to life's will.
For seeds of legacy sprout and thrive,
Even as bodies cease to survive.
So let the grave not whisper fear,
But echo love for those held dear.
For beneath its weight, we find our place,
A fleeting mark in time’s embrace. 2 replies
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