The Grave Yard - Poem by Orlando Belo
Vandals knocked down the gravestones in the churchyard during the night.
They didn’t give a damn about the dead, their families, or what is right.
The grave yard vandals have gone and the usual tranquillity has returned
to the field of the dead, the flattened headstones and broken urns.
The peace and quiet of the night is disturbed by an owl’s repeated hoot,
and the flapping of wings, as the Belfry’s bats come flying through.
The moon bright sky suddenly vanishes behind a darkened cloud,
as if to give a wake up sign to a transparent figure covered by a shroud.
The howling grey figure hovers over the flattened epitaphs and marble stones,
waking the dormant spirits who respond with unhappy morbid moans.
The ghosts of the old and newly departed are rising in anger this very night
to take revenge on the desecrators who broke the dark’s link with the light.
Hosts of vengeful grey blue ghosts and spirits swirl and mingle together,
and then separate to seek out the vandals in this night of damp cold weather.
With deathly haunting cries they howl and search, as they travel with the wind
through keyholes, cracks in doors and windows, they examine everything.
One by one the vandals were cornered and reminded of their shame;
continually they shout, “No harm was meant.., it was just a game.”
Swirling in the air the ghouls prodded and pulled, as they hounded them on
back to the grave yard where they would face what they had done.
Into a large dark cold tomb the weeping gravestone wreckers were driven,
with blood running from their wounds; they were not to be forgiven.
The moaning, groaning, spirits of the dead followed them into the crypt,
slamming shut the heavy door so hard it made one of the vandals shit.
The ghosts and spirits encircled the living, and raised in them pure hell,
and by daylight the following morning no one was alive to yell, or tell.
It was several days later that seven heart attack victims were discovered,
with tormented faces, mouths wide open, and eyes with coins covered.
Comments about The Grave Yard by Orlando Belo
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe