This is not an elegy
but written on a country churchyard
on a late Thursday morning

A hundred people listening
to a protestant minister
talking in grave tones

Words from an enormous belly
through thick lips, from his paper
frightening sternness

A young handsome pope
talking off the cuff
light-winged speech

The world of those defunct
the world of those alive
hopeful combination

Weed-stricken God’s acre
under a merciless sun
sweat running from my temples

Abandoned graves
telling of short lives
of widows left alone.

Broken stones
broken lives
broken words.