Even the crevices will be covered with moss,
and grass before it. Cracks on these memorials
are stories told and retold where burial grounds
are salons of the lingering undead, memory
hounds like incessant rain. Nothing is ever lost.

Only elegies stay, a language of remembrance
for all who would care anyway. Like tombs,
they have embellished narratives of kindness,
gentleness, rectitude, abiding flames of love.
Like Taj Mahal, these remain unextinguished.

Stones or pillars, marble markers, or epitaphs
recall these lost lives and loves from crevices
covered with moss and grass before it, but all
will sprout from mute and scorched earth
like words cranked out of pain in an empty heart.

— Albert B. Casuga