So life becomes the land it treads, And in becoming, so became, A restful and contented soul, Who in remembrance hears its name.
As light becomes the dark, and weds Itself to darkness with the flame, Engraved in stone, the words extol, Yet this inscription does defame.
These words; the only thing it dreads, For utterance of them to claim, The bones within that bitter hole And their fled spirit, both as tame.
So fraying now, those wooden beds, Set time and nature loose to maim, To mingle men with rock and coal, For are they all, not each the same?
Alex Ó Fearghail