Anzang
Stand in empty fields.
Series of yellows, greens, grays.
Grass only grows, a natural death
holds no fear. There are
no crying families here. They wait
in queues at funerals,
place cold pearls in cooling hands,
sit in silence, twist handkerchiefs. Today,
sorrow is hidden, a crime.
And the grass still
grows. It cycles, aids
soil and stone to finally
bury the dead.
















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