Poetry

It’s exhausting, painful with tears
there at the grave,
old ladies blow their noses and cry, old men 
pass away all of the time
with surreptitiously a big argument about who
will inherit everything,
when cousins glance at each other
sometimes kiss, embrace and reach out hands.
 
[Reference: “Ballade van die kerkhof” (Ballade of the graveyard) by T.T. Cloete.]