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Lulu Sarmiento Sep 2017
Behold. The sounds of the whistling wind.
The water above,
Mimicking the silver dew drops.
And down it pours.
Touching the darkness,
Empty yet hallowed ground.
A village of cold stones,
Flat beds of green grass.
And the scattered,
Rotted or dried.
Petals of roses and chrysanthemum.
The heavy and monotonous downpour--
Erasing marks of men,
Of women,
Of children.
Whose tears flowed.
Longing for the souls;
Traveling beyond eternity.

— The End —