The tombs don’t talk
I can still hear stories
The tombs are silent
They still listen
Laying on the snow, looking
around seeing rows and rows of gray stone
Each having something to say
I stare at them, wanting to know what they would be doing now
if they were alive
I walk around reading the dates
shocked at the long lives
sad for the short ones
As you walk home you can't help but wonder what your stone will say
I can still hear stories
The tombs are silent
They still listen
Laying on the snow, looking
around seeing rows and rows of gray stone
Each having something to say
I stare at them, wanting to know what they would be doing now
if they were alive
I walk around reading the dates
shocked at the long lives
sad for the short ones
As you walk home you can't help but wonder what your stone will say
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