Its roots below with death entwined,
The cypress stands by the old stone;
Its loyalty lies with the bones:
The corpse that the grey stone enshrines.

And of the gnarled, blackened boughs,
A touch of death—of mourning—lies,
A sentinel for those who lay
In their eternal rest below.

And what of mortal birth and life,
If death is the eternal place
Past the momentous precipice
That slips into the afterlife?

And soon all will lay in their rest
And find life was but a sweet dream
And slumber on, in their dark sleep
That black boughs and gray stone have blessed.