Like monasteries of old, you,
lie perched on a hillside near the village
You are mysterious, somber & silent
yet there are no huge carved

Wooden doors flung open wide
to welcome weary travelers,
And you offer no bowl of soup
made from scraps garnered by begging friars

Your guests have no need of nourishment, only rest
I walk among your grey marble stones
to find names of neighbors, friends and family
I long to talk with them, see them, touch them

To share precious memories
You give me only cold statistics
born, died, father, child & wife
I cry in agony

You saints in this holy hospice
Can you not join me in a prayer,
a hymn or a final plea
One day I shall accept your hospitality

For I to will be in need of rest
I shall enter the open grave
like your soundless monks
Understand the mystery perpetrate the somberness maintains the silence