Progeny very often go to the hallowed place of many bones,
To the grounds where there is no life and there are no dead;
Going in hope of finding the particular visit that atones
For wrongs and mistakes they conceive inside their head.
They stand and stare at tombstones, nothing much is said...
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People inside structures, pronouncing a personal litany;
They attend 'services' inside buildings plain and ornate
To listen to ancient writings passed down through history,
Seeking the pathway through some golden gilded gate,
Then play out their lives as they see fit while they wait...
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Of course, they give thanks for all the ordinary things-
Things in their lives happening as a matter of course.
I am not privy to the solace that such a service brings,
But it seems to strengthen people as with an inner force.
At least one person will always get it wrong, of course...
** ** ** **
It is all hopelessly arcane, not understandable to me,
Except for the narrow portion under which I was raised.
Even the ones leading the service admit to a great mystery.
Sure enough, the modernized utterances leave me dazed,
Although I've no doubt a certain One should be praised...
_ _ _ _ _ _
There are thousands of wonderful sayings in the book of life,
Too many having been given multitudinous interpretations.
One almost needs the service of a good sharp flensing knife
To trim off the countless unnecessary convoluted variations,
And to bypass numerous arcane dead language incantations...
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In many foreign countries the trek each year is unabated,
As people go to do whatever they do in places old and new.
They will do so year after year until appetites are sated,
And no battles need be fought for what they perceive as true,
Until something tells them it is time again to kill me and you.....
** ** ** **
_ _ _
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♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
