Of what it’s made, I am not sure, some sort of stone,
the letters are all washed away by time, and moss
is growing where his shoulders would have been
if this was him, and he’d be standing, but it is not.
And he just lies here . Underneath, his bones.
they all took shape that we are not aware of.
But it’s relevant no more, how bones and hairs
are lying and in what specific order. Now, who cares.
This is a grave. The moss has taken over death.
But if you’re silent, you can hear the grass sigh
softly. Think of it: this sure must be his breath.