by Luis G. Dato
The cemetery is the house of death,
By reeds surrounded and rank growth of grass,
What dreary thoughts assail us as we pass,
Unwanted come, like phantom Death, by stealth,
Ephemeral on earth we drew our breath,
And vain our worldly treasures we amass,
Death’s power no king or sultan may surpass,
Nor pride of beauty, vaunt of wisdom, wealth.
And yet the cemetery tells of faith,
Some spark of life immortal it bestows,
The heart to cheer, rob death of its dismay,
A halo shines around each somber wreath,
Above the tombs still fragrant blooms the rose,
Beyond Death’s night glows the eternal day
