Men of Dirt

Strange creatures, we, men of dirt are,
kneading our fingers through the mulch of tradition,
clinging to the texture of earth.
In the face of celestial worlds
and heavens unknown,
of gospel choruses, the heavenly strains of Allah!
Mohammed! Jesus! God! The spiritual awakening!

in the face of death
all we can offer is a burial in our home soil.
We cover our loved ones in a blanket of
earth, so that we can clutch to their ghost weight:
a testament to physical love.

At sunset’s last rays, the sermon recited in heavy tones,
the stained light in cathedrals’ muffled passages
of smoky candles and faint must,
the prayers to silent Gods for mercy, for love
were not tangible enough for
grief.

We are unable to send the dead to heaven
unable to release their dust.
The dust that covers our lives,
in home and forgotten corner.
Dust particles, the small parcels of
memories past, of
lives lived and forgotten, the only physical remains of
the stars.