Walk with me now, among the transfixed dead who kept life’s compact and who thus endure harsh sentence here—among pink-petaled beds and manicured green lawns. The sky’s azure, pale blue once like their eyes, will gleam blood-red at last when sunset staggers to the door of each white mausoleum, to inquire— What use, O things of erstwhile loveliness? ('Completing the Pattern' by Michael R. Burch)