The dead do not speak.
They cannot tell us of their past, their future.
They cannot tell us of the sacrifices they made for their families. The blood they spilled.
The wounds they've suffered.
All they get for their hard work is a final parking space.
A final bed and a white slab of stoney silnce.
The dead cannot cry.
The hole that we dig for ourselves.
A hole that becomes our grave.
If they could speak, they would tell us stories of the mistakes they made, hoping we would learn the lesson they didn't.
They cry for the young souls that join them.
The people we weep for, yet, we are the ones ending life.
I wish the dead could speak, cry, hope, live again.
