No friend to wipe the sweat of death
From off his face,
Or kindred, when he drew his breath
In this deserted place.
So, here he lies beneath the soil,
Where wild weeds grow,
The poor, the pauper, freed from toil,
In rough-hewn boxes low.
No marble monument to tell,
In doubtful truth,
That he had acted ill or well
In hoary age or youth.
A simple board is all that's seen,
Or points to where
In silence sleeps the poor plebeian,
Releas’d from earthly care.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Ones,
I am inspired by others' offerings. This particular poem speaks to me.
Reaching into the minds, hearts, and spirits of those who witnessed or walked in the shoes of these Numbered Souls fuels my own creative spirit. To the best of my ability, I pledge to acknowledge all that emerge, calling upon me to reclaim their voice.
Mj Pettengill, Author
Etched in Granite Historical Fiction Series