George Washington Cole - 1827 - 1911

George Washington Cole 1827 – 1911 So here I sleep. Buried in this dirt. Covered in this earth. Returning to the dust. Finding heaven in the whispers of the wind. And as for all my friends here, All these stilled silent voices of Clark Cemetery, We represent just a single sand pebble Just a minute solitary dust particle In an ever expanding infinite universe Of shadows and scant tracings. Travel to any city or town in the United States, Or any sovereign country on Terra Firma, And you will find the endless names of us, The dead, Who lived and died since the onset Of the Gilded Age of Bessemer steel. And those endless lists of the dead are nothing, Nothing in comparison to the endless lists Of the by-gone personages before us, The past generations, Who breathed and sighed and spasmed Since the onset of Eden’s first heartbeat. My friends, we are all so small, And so minuscule. Does it not behoove us to dance Even while the music plays? Does it not behoove us to be kind, Even when the cruel day Finally slaps us on the side of our faces? So here I sleep. Buried deep in this forgotten grave Just a whispering shadow of a former man Awaiting with baited breath The blare of the last trumpet!