Fields

Extemporaneously written at Midnight

I entered, one day, a cemetery in a place unknown

And meandered to the cusp of its yard

I saw there a magnificent statue

The Angel of Death, Azrael, cradling a child

Enwrapt with this child was

The infinity of grace and Heaven 

I then walked further and further

And entered the garden of Death itself

But it was no garden at all

It was Death's well-tended field of our mortality

I am sure that those before

Who have trod here

Have mistaken the pestilence for peace

The rot for resurrection

It was then that I no longer believed

That Death was really a release from life

But instead the sowing of our lives for Death's field of want and wont

— M.M.