weary, never named souls,
who ground their sun bleached bones
into unyielding earth
and passed with no flowers,
restive in pine boxes
beneath a catafalque
dressed in black rose petals,
sing with dirt choked voices
of rising and setting
the empty bier aflame;
and now that the old king
has been resurrected,
take up their righteous song;
his seat is fine tinder