Poem Against the Cremation Culture
Fire starts to climb up, nearly touching the heavens. The sound of crackling wood sounded like a death wail. But what of the air that chokes and sighs? When another body starts to turn to ashes and flies? Smoke is present, and it is as black as only hopelessness is. Possessing sorrow, yet polluting the weather. Rivers that were once clear are now tainted. There are memories of burnt ashes; there are memories of grief. Would this be the way their memories can be honored? Thus, feeding the flame, fueling dread? By casting their ashes and polluting the streams, Is it possible to actually transform sacred waters into the dreams of death? It hears tradition and its lore, but does it ever look? The forests cut down, the dying trees? The breath of life, now heavy and gray When have funeral pyres been burning day after day? For sake of peace, we started burning the earth. But what and to what? Other names, other people, and the future—what is worth it? When th...
