The Diggers
Today will be like any other
during this time of disease
They will dig the graves
for the people who bring
the members of their family
The body will be wrapped
in sheets from the final bed
Coffins are not available
So many have died today
the supply of wood is lean
There is always crying
No one cries for the trees
that are now being chopped
for some other use than shade
A digger's tears are dry
His face is always creased
At home the teapot sings
This is the wail of oceans
for all the dead in rows
Too many shrouds yell
from the earth for change
These people were all unique
before the diggers came
We all reappear in the dust
Barry G. Wick
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