The Tomb Guardian

The Tomb Guardian


Bread is scarce

But a new feast daily

At the palace of the prince

While the dugs of other mothers


“The dead fare better”

Cry the unfed, unwashed

Silk and festival

Fete and soirée



“Your grace”

“We beseech thee”

For sum inconsequential

A triviality

When those outside the gate


By fetid sewers

Unnourished souls

Forgotten lives



Wrap themselves

Against the cold

But cold passes through

The blocks of the tomb

Harbor the cold

Like the ice in the stream

They rob heat

The guardian shivers

All these dead

All past

But I am here

To keep them


No one says

No one cares

No one comes

But they come

[1] Thanks to Franz Kafka for the idea from his The Warden of the Tomb.


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