My mournful soul, you,
For all my friends around,
You have become the burial
Of all those hounded down.
Devoting to their memoryA verse, embalming them,
In torment, broken,
Lamenting over them,
In this our mean and selfish time,
For conscience and for
You stand-a
To lay their souls to rest.
The sum of all their
Has bowed you to the ground.
You smell of dust, of death's decay,
Of morgue and burial mound.
My beggarly, dejected soul,
You heard and saw your fill;
Remembered all and mixed it well,
And ground it like a mill.
Continue pounding and
All that I witnessed
To graveyard compost, as you
For almost forty years.
