The Epitaph Poem by Chris Zachariou

Candles flicker, the cantors chant
and the solemn sermon of the priest
fills the church with blackness.
Longing for a scrap of comfort,
I gaze at the austere Archangel
standing sentry at the sacred gate.

Fear and foreboding fill me.
He has discarded his golden mail
and clad in black, he grips
a basket and a rusty scythe.
His face is nothing but a skull
—menacing, and savage.

She rises silently, pale, and peaceful.
Under the stern gaze of the saints
she shrouds herself in candlelight
and in the mists of olive leaves
burning in the scented censer.

I push, jostle and hurry to be by her side.
'The boy is unhinged, ' many whisper.

With hands entwined, we step out
into the searing blaze of the noonday sun.
Despondent cicadas hush their song
and the grey old windmill stretches out
its scrawny arms up to the Lord Jehovah.

With a rusty voice, it demands
an answer but the Lord is silent.
Anguished, it stares at the spire
in search of a shred of solace—
fifteen weeping doves
are painting the belfry black.

Perched on the wall by the iron gate,
we gaze at the yellow woodland
where thirteen mimosas bloomed in May.
"We were so happy then, ' she whispers
and I realize I will live a willing prisoner among
those blossoming mimosas for the rest of my days.

Byzantine incantations and haunting chants
echo in the sterile marble garden.
The pungent scent of rosemary grows stronger
and her lips have turned to an icy shade of blue.
Mourners wail, and four sombre pallbearers
lower her white coffin into an open grave.