Peace you built your house in the graveyard,
And gave yourself to those scattered bones,
While we toil to have you.
I laughed at the silent chat of bones.
Death how wicked you are!
Your visit leaves nothing but tears and mourning,
Only visiting, but not to be visited.
Can’t you spare, even on merit!
Three hundred and sixty five days without food,
Makes on dry bone yawn,
Like a hungry buffalo,
Those jaws are grudging, budging begging for food,
Death if you can show pity,
Let us know how your place is,
What is your house like? What is your mission?
Though, God made death, man patronizes it.
Graveyard of the dead,
With their resting dry bones waiting for the journey,
With their ears wide open for the trumpet,
For the talks of those dry bones echoes across the seas.