I have the memory of feeling the heavy pace,
Weighed down by the sadness of living beings,
Guessing in the mist of a small morning,
The shadow of Humans screwed, tightened by grief.
Very high perched, at the top of a guardian tree,
In this valley, from an american village,
A gray dove, moaning her song,
By cooing, to the pilgrims, uniting.
The funeral march begins. In crescendo.
They walk, family, friends on my back.
The air is torn. A thousand tears sobbed,
By the child of man, now deceased.
Held by six porters with a vaulted shoulder,
Folded under the weight of the wooden studded coffin.
It is for the loved one, this setting in the ground,
This right to the chaplain and to his prayers.
For this memory, the date and the name,
On the stele, engraved plaque, the inscription.
A place to offer for recollection,
To the children of the present time and of a future time.
I am by whom come the departed,
I was born of the first mortal buried,
I am forged with forgotten imprints,
I am a path, both land and gravel.
By forced passages of tried people,
I have grown, worn out, over the years,
In two furrows, generated by strides.
I am way, at once, Earth and Sacred.