The Graverobbers' Song
We’re picking through the rubbish of our lives,
for one must try to make the most of things.
We light the torches, sharpen rusty knives,
our shirts tucked in and earlobes lined with rings,
and as we’re walking, one discreetly sings:
we’ve come to claim your treasures from afar,
from rich, from poor, we don’t care who you are.
Without employ, these harrowed times are rough,
too many cemetery stones today.
But digging in the soil’s trade enough,
with trinkets six feet deep your only pay,
and after all, you know what people say:
the dead will tell no tales, their names a scar
on graven rock; we don’t see who you are.
From tomb to tomb we save the bits of gold
that go to waste, forgotten underground.
Nocturnal nameless earthworms growing old
by playing twisted games of lost and found,
and when our time is up, our song will sound:
and who will mourn? we don’t know who they are,
and who will mourn? we don’t know who we are.
By Joseph Harker
Joseph Harker is the pseudonym of a twentysomething graduate student who writes poetry to unwind in those rare moments of free time. His work has been featured in journals such as Qarrtsiluni and Chantarelle's Notebook, but you're better off getting in touch with him via his blog at http://namingconstellations.wordpress.com. He promises to say hello, and possibly bake you a pastry if you're kind.
