When people die we sleep in graves—
Where do memories go when they die?

To the same place where broken dreams go?
Where the sky is dark:
no up, no down, no before, no after?

To the land of could-have-beens,
Where lost souls wander, where the deathless cry?

Or to a land beneath a lilac sky,
To some sweet place in a far green country,
by a river at the edge of night?
Where the crownless are king,
And the wingless fly?