OUR SELVES, OUR GRAVES

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.
--T.S. Eliot

Our graves will not be marked
    by any memories of

What we've done, but
    rather

We are our graves.
We step like phantoms
    among walls of

Houses, inhaling loneliness.

Our graves will not be marked
    by any trace or
    sign of

Life. Lifeless is what we are,
    our gaze is empty,
    our breath is meaningless.

Our graves will not be marked
    by stars or dreams,
Only cold comfort of tile
    and glass, of clocks
        and instruments.

Our graves, like our selves,
    are covered
By masks and monuments
    that scream for

Love, love buried deep inside

Our selves, our graves.
 

                                        August 8, 1992
                                    --Alexander Shaumyan