I was walking one day Past the city Into the shadows of our smoke; The fumes of our cigarettes covered the trail Until nothing became clear for me to see. I bumped into an ancient looking man, With green eyes that turned pale And a wrinkled face That was about to crumble; I saw him cleaning up A newly placed tombstone. He was a graveyard man; I look at him and suddenly I felt the urge to ask him, How is it like? Talking to dead people. He didn't answer But I continued anyway; How is it like to look at solid stones? And envision her tender eyes looking back How could we mark he territory of the dead? As if soil could surround our spirits How could it suffice? To point out troubles getting no advice Questions with no answers, And as you speak You don’t know if you are being heard But you continue anyway. How is it like? Talking to dead people; Salute the rocks under the carves, Knowing that underneath Lies not wood But a person who couldn't as much as you could, And even if he could, you don’t know if he would- come out and talk to you, Because maybe he’s fed up? Maybe when life takes too long The sweet becomes bitter And our friends Become but anchors attached to our hearts Pulling us down Marking our spirits with soil; Maybe he’s ashamed Of the blood stains on his folded flag, Of the- lose knots in his piece of cloth And you’ll never discover that But you still continue anyway Asking your questions; How is it like? Talking to dead people. How is it like talking to anti-change institutions? And, people with no purpose in life And, violent illiterates who seek to **** Because death should be passed on How is it like talking to people that will not listen? To the governments that will not bother To the public blinded by the minor majorities To the children stuck in their melodramatic attitudes Over crowded with the propaganda of teenagery To the hypocrite schools that teach but not educate To the mothers who give birth To a fruitful seed, but will not cultivate; To a father that’s always late To his son’s birthdays Because his job appointments Pointed in the shape of earphones And circled in the shape of speakers So it’s neither him listening, nor him talking Its them. But nothing will change, Yet you continue anyway Asking your questions, Not for the dead, But for the resting voices Leaving you the space to think; To answer within Or decide to disregard, Leaving space for you own voice to emerge. And as I look back at graveyard man He was gone; As if his body de-synthesized as soon as I finished And the newly placed casket; Bared his exact size, And the tombstone For a second there represented his eyes, And it didn't take too long, for me to realize How is it like; talking to the dead.