Une soirée des Morts

How doth the mourning dove

soothe the souls of the living,

singing upon the graves of those departed?

Whose song echoes beneath the earth

a consonance carried to those laid to rest.

These animated creatures prosper amid the deceased in a celebration of life.

The deer nearby graze upon the dewy grass, forever thankful for the feast.

The ravens caw in vigilance, guarding the fenced sanctuary.

The squirrels play in the fields, hiding behind the metropolis of tombstones.

To me, they are all precious.

Oh, but how I envy that this is their home.

Every dawn I am welcomed by souls to join a gathering of the dead,

and I am overwhelmed with gratitude and peace.

I lounge in cemeteries for the company.

Perhaps the dead can sense my loneliness.

My attempt for a conversation and my desire to be longed for.

I wait in a tranquil scene as the day continues,

and the clouds suspended in the air float away with no urgency.

The sun always lingers, but the faithful trees spoil me with shade.

And for this, I thank them abundantly.

With dusk’s arrival, my departure is compelled by the encroaching night.

I, with a beating pulse and a current of warm blood,

am not permitted in the graveyard once night falls.

For that is the time when the dead can be free from their caverns,

dancing and singing under the moonlight.

Une soirée des Morts.

One day I will join them,

but tonight I wait until morning.

For tomorrow I shall spend another day among the dead,

Content with my companions, waiting for my invitation.

Until we meet again.