Graves In Gray Mist

They were young when they have died
their graves sit still on the grassy hill
as birds glide silently on westerly winds
on a gloomy day full of rain and chill.

The trees, they are sad and full of fog
they hide their faces in gray clouds
late winter blooms on earth and sky
but their tears dance on the grounds.

They were young and they have died
their deaths left to our interpretation.
Is there ever a meaning to anything?
Yet, we continue to spin and sing
in the same old path carved into time
and we go on living the lives of our forefathers.