Corpses and wreathes;
The funerary procession
Proceeds through fields
Of sun-kissed wheat.
The wind is mild,
The sky baby-blue;
The caskets number
Two hundred and sixty two.
Mellow, the Spring; birds sing
A lullaby to those eternally asleep.
The song crashes into the earth;
Now here crimson lilies dimly glow.
Two hundred and sixty two
Number the gravestones gray;
November. Sky, sapphire-blue.
Wreathes of dead flowers sway
In the freezing Autumn breeze.