So many numbers on the stones
Above the dust and brittle bones
So many words. So long unread
So few are true. In what they said

Beneath each cold, grey epitaph
Someone who used to smile, to laugh
Someone who lived and loved and breathed
Beneath those stony, hand carved wreaths

"Dear Sarah Jane, aged only seven"
"Beloved Father, now in heaven"
"Treasured husband". "Dearest wife"
So few words for each lost life

But if each one could be a book
And all could take the chance to look
A self-portrayal of the past
Left for the future. Made to last

Would we still fear this hallowed ground?
Where only mourners can be found
Or would we venture not to hide
But find the treasures held inside?