No neat rows here of polished craftsmanship.
Instead most plots are roughly marked by shards
of shattered rock set edgewise in the sand.
Headstones, where they exist, are crudely hewn,
some shallowly engraved, some painted, some
bare stone lacking Arabic inscription.
This is a harsh land. No soil. Rock and sand.
The sun burns, wells run dry. The cemeterey
seems a jungle of jagged teeth, sharp, hard,
or open charnel house of broken bones.
The scene gives little comfort, one would think,
but early morning sees the blue robes drift
between the graves. One woman's pink robe flowers
next to the stone she sits beside and holds.
Others sit or stand gripping the headstones
of their lost loved ones - parents, spouses, sons -
something to hold on to in the pain of loss.
I know the feeling and so feel a bond
past race, religion, wealth or national strife,
with other fellow travellers through life.
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