Place
The gentle, purring wind
Rustles the grasses of the shrine
That lies in the quiet place
That’s protected from ones own mind
Flowers grow anew
Birds sing in the tress
The graveyard whispers their pleas
The moaning ghosts of the past
Quiet their moans to watch the view
Of the burning setting sun
At night the grasses grow
The fireflies fly on the shrines
Snowy maidens dance on top of their own graves
To the sound of the murmur of the river
That mixes with the stars
For their silent, lovely raves
Copyright © Rebecca Berezin | Year Posted 2012
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