Im standing here, at the edge of this vast, silent expanse, and I cant help but feel like a trespasser in a dream. Only a sliver of this cemetery is visible here just a few rows, a patch of grass, the curve of a road yet it feels like the whole world is laid out before me. I know its only a fraction, but its enough to make my chest tighten. These white markers, so neat, so uniform, whispering of lives cut short, of battles fought and forgotten, of love and loss that outlived their time. The trees above cast shadows like memories fleeting, heavy, and unyielding. I step forward, and the grass beneath my feet is soft, almost alive, as if it remembers the touch of countless hands. I cant see the horizon here, only the endless rows stretching into the distance, a silent army of the departed, all waiting. I wonder what stories lie beneath these stones? What laughter, what tears, what dreams, what final words? This isnt just a cemetery. Its a quiet monument, a testament to the fragile, fleeting nature of life, and the unyielding, silent power of memory. And I, with my own breath and my own grief, am just a small, insignificant visitor a ghost in a place where ghosts are the only thing that truly belong.

Comments