I won't say it aloud,
I'll murmur, my words indistinct,
You and I the only ones to hear them.
Within my simple shroud,
My suppliant fingers linked,
I stare up at the boxy slabs--I fear them.
All those names; ancestors, proud,
Their names should be engraved underground, not inked;
So grasping hands--or lies--can't smear them.
Below me, the silent lists are so loud,
They steal any chance to think,
As I weep my grief, painfully near them.
Your people, chosen from the crowd;
They pray for faith that never shrinks,
But do You even hear them?