A man can see, if he’s willing, if he guesses the truth. A man might lie down amid a forest of headstones; A living man might lie beside his beloved, his eyes washed clean by tears, and in some twilit hour see a loathsome figure stumbling into a vine conquered mausoleum. Those vines, dead in the winter, still draw blood by the prick of their black-tipped nettles.
Ignorant, yet guessing—perhaps the stones whisper to him of what they have seen.
A man might lift himself from his sorrow and wander down a hill to break into a forsaken tomb.
Tale Told 