Beside the fence, on the barren ground,
I stand alone, all by myself.
Surrounded by filth and unattended weed
Thinking about the past, my old self.
About the times when I was clean and new,
With the names and the dates freshly carved in,
And when I was visited frequently
Moreover, when my exsistence had a meaning.
At my feet, lies a body, long forgotten,
But of great importance, when alive.
Can be predicted, from the amount of flowers he got
Thrice a day, or five.
My fellow brethren over there, you see?
Has been placed there, just a few days back.
All new , and everyone weeping around him.
The stone still loved, and intact.
My body's all rough and rugged,
With cracks and faults around my middle,
But still washed with memories, melodious and malicious ones,
And the stench of burnt candles.
Oh, how I wish, people would cry,
Around me all day,
Placing flowers on my bed, like they used to
Remembering the old man, all fragile and frail.
For people gain more importance when they die,
And others remember them more than they used to
When he was alive – as, in him,
People see more regret, than gratitude.
As the days pass by,
Nothing changes, stays as it is
People forget the one they lowered under me,
Silenced are the mourns and cries.
Memories fade, sorrows are forgotten.
People stop coming by, everyone's gone;
There's nothing left, right now.
Except for an abandoned gravestone.
