A gravedigger homeward plods,
Wearied from our riotous world,
To plow for what was once so dear,
“Far from the crowd’s ignoble strife.”*
Conjuring the graveyard bards,
He murmurs of “the knell of parting day, ”*
Digging with his barebone hands,
Imploring purpose into foreign soil.
Some sober wish still lingers in the shell,
As though buried with some qualms.
Stories of Chinese ghost fairies
Rise out of flesh and yellow mud.
Here rests longevity, stillness, bliss,
Solitude and wonted fire.
He came to burrow not for peace,
But for love’s mislaid desire.
What still owes time yet to fulfill
He buries under rugged elms again,
Placing stones due in fond array,
As though tending to his father’s bones.
At night he whispers to the turtle,
‘Nothing to show for a lifetime’s love
But an empty shell? “
Where can a soul find its own joy? ’
*Thomas Gray (1716-1771) , “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem