Poetry

Incineration

  Incineration   I reckon they’ll be sorry, historians and poets, the archeologists. They won’t know about our lives:   what we ate, how we walked, our illnesses and why we died. We won’t be down below, or not in numbers to supply   a statistician’s set. When people went to earth they could always be exhumed, their fragile bones read.   Burning human bodies to throw the ashes away with treasured rings and things leaves puzzles unresolved   by those who follow on. No bog men’s jaws for them if relics are shovelled off to ovens where fires are…

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