Without A Proper Eulogy - Poem by Shirley Alexander
I am as a miner on his mountain of grey,
calculating the loss of sweat for profit.
The land I hold writ to name my own
will choose to remember nothing of me,
save plastic scars and scent of dusty bones.
And when I am gone, mourners will rush
to add insult on the careless print that was me.
They will stack weak stone tall in my honor
where wild flowers should forever be free to grow.
And I will sigh into the dirt, and mourn all losses.
Comments about Without A Proper Eulogy by Shirley Alexander
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.