The child has now grown older.
The metallic-halogen’s winter light illuminates the sepulchral trees of mourning whose branches bear heavily on the gray and contourless visitors shoulders.
Between ash and elm next to rowan and maple, you will find well-kept noble cypress, thujas, cedar and pine, all in a pleasant shimmer from park lanterns and lighting from the chapel’s facade.
Framed by a cold wall, everything feels so quietly beautiful, this contrasting scenery, such respect and reverence for the residents’ silent screams.
Behind the evergreen beauty, among the cyclamen and buds, along the silver garland and hydrangea, on a bed of spruce twigs, under purple chrysanthemums, love herb, flower bed, ornamental bowl, reed sucker and dark red winter berries, works of granite and marble stand as a representation of the worlds that has passed and been forgotten.
An entire life reduced and annihilated to the most basic foundation of existence; now only a five millimeter deep engraved reminiscence in a tacky font made on a decimeter thick ornament with details in bishop’s porcelain, as a reminiscence of the unforgettable deed etched somewhere in the cerebrum of us, the survivors.
Imagine that something so complicated, something as unique as life has now only been reduced to something so incredibly insignificant, something as unreasonable as a magmatic or (comically enough) a metamorphic rock - as a transformation from something to a thing. It’s almost a mockery.
But who cares about a decade, a century, a millennium? No? Or?
But at the graveyard we’re equal.
Above the dead, we walk the path they created for future generations to destroy; The foundation they laid, the walls they built for all our children to destroy.