Cemetery streets

Walking through the icy breaths of the chrysanthemum, memories everywhere as quick as leaves in the wind and as sweet as memories of waiting,
of laughter,

of affectionate glances during Christmas lunch.

I remember small stories etched in the faces of the dead, family,

consolation at dusk and terror of troubled sleep.
I listen behind a stone wall to the wails of distraught women clinging to a rocky faith,
full of resignation and resentment towards gods and saints.

I return home amidst the crowing of the cockerel and the scratching

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