Her church is on a hill top,
Steps to climb on Sundays,
So she did as her ancestors.
To the mass and for the sermon.
How to live and how not to,
The roads to heaven and hell,
The hymns and songs of praise,
Prearranged by choirmaster.
Sunday schools were never missed,
So did she attended fasting prayers,
She brought flowers and give away,
For she thought that is the christian living.
And then on a tenebrous day of December,
She saw her love placed on earth,
Closed by concrete and a cross to adorn it,
Even the wind stopped breathing at the cemetery.
She stopped going to the church,
As she learned in a single day,
On how sinners share it with others,
The same piece of land and oblivion.
Every box has skeletons and dust,
Also flowers and candles on their grave,
If lucky someone would remember you,
And pause by the sleeping dead on sundays.
– Emily Parker