Just a car ride into oblivion
At the end of asphalt roads.
To a park whose signs demark
A history too crowded for meagre lives
They built their homes among ruins.
We walk among their graves.
The last of them are buried elsewhere
Their story almost silent now.
We briefly populate the hilltop,
With our talk and picture taking.
These thornfields once were gardens
Kept by water from the well.
The hilltop bloodied now
In sunset rust,
The only green is found in niches
Hewn deep into the earth
Where broad-leaved fig trees
Dream a shady coolness
Safe again for children’s song.