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 lit.
Suzanne Edgar
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