The Art of Human Memory

There were drops on chests and breasts

That fell from blood swollen eyes

They fell for they were burning the dead

Under cloudy stormy skies

Some were promises, some were friends

Some brothers and some wives

They were all charred the same way

Either bombed or butchered by knives

And those tears made further promises

Never would we forget their love

Thus they brought back the burning dead

Resurrecting black charred doves

Those bodies they sat up on their pyre

Weeping and requesting with dead smiles

"Why make ghost of us until eternity

Please forget us for a while."

But no word, no sound, no prayer was heard

None by the black weeping clan

None of them would stop to mourn

Such was their illogical plan

Though they would plainly carry on

And reminiscing as of some broken jewelry

The wretched ghosts would be called

For this is the art of human memory

No peace to the dead, no peace in life

No one understands why a ghost never smiles

Forget the legends the great the dead

For memory wretchedly is more servile

Those bodies they sit up on their pyre

Weep and request with dead smiles

"Why make ghost of us until eternity

Please, o’ please forget us for a while."