- Books, Literature, and Writing
They Sleep In Mother Earth's Arms
There are patches not touched by dew, hich mark their place of rest.
Tiny balls of flattened grass, convey where they once slept.
Little preference did they give,
To where they laid, their body at night.
The early riser may catch their stillness before night’s curtain is drawn.
But they’ll wander off in thoughts of their own, for they have seen it all before.
Old men curled in foetus form, shut off from the cold, the passing world; old babies asleep in mother earth’s arms.
But we see it not this way, neither do they, when they awake to wander, and return with the night.
To lie once more, unjudged upon the only solid thing they know –
The earth; their bed tonight.
Their tomb; another day.
Then evenly spread will be the dew, little crystals signalling their eternal rest; they cared not to delay.