Gravediggers Poem by Mohammad Yousef

In the quiet stretch of dusk,
when shadows stretch like weary limbs,
they arrive,
with shovels slung over shoulders,
their boots heavy with the mud of yesterdays,
the weight of stories untold,
the murmurs of the earth beneath their feet.

They are the silent custodians
of what we dare not speak,
the keepers of secrets buried
beneath stone and soil,
where whispers of lives once lived
echo softly through the roots of trees,
and the wind carries their tales
to those who pause,
to listen.

With each scoop,
they carve out a resting place,
a cradle for the memories,
the laughter and the tears
that once danced through the air,
now hushed,
but never forgotten.

Their hands are calloused,
not just from the toil of digging,
but from the embrace of grief,
the shared silence of the bereaved,
the solemn nods and muted prayers,
the heavy hearts that visit,
leaving behind flowers,
a fleeting token of love,
where love still breathes,
even in absence.

They dig not just for the dead,
but for the living,
to remind us that life is cyclical,
that every end is a beginning,
that in the cold embrace of the earth,
there is warmth,
and in the dark,
there is light.

They work by lantern's glow,
as twilight drapes its cloak,
each strike of the spade a heartbeat,
each mound of earth a testament
to the fragility of existence,
the beauty of being,
the inevitability of return.

And when the last shovelful is placed,
they stand,
wiping sweat from brows,
exhaling the day's weight,
for they are not just gravediggers,
but guardians of memory,
the whisperers of endings and beginnings,
the hands that shape the final farewell,
with reverence,
with grace.

They leave the site,
the moon rising high,
casting silver light upon the earth,
knowing that in the stillness,
they have honored life,
and in every grave,
a story continues,
a heart still beats,
in the rhythm of the soil,
the pulse of the universe,
where love,
forever,
is buried deep.