Sweet scents drift across
The ancient grave.
Its crumbling headstone
Casts a weak shadow on the overgrown field.
Empty now, but in a couple of months –
Cows will be munching
On the green strands of grass,
And finishing off lunch with dandelion weeds.
Whoever was there once,
Lying still under the earth,
Is gone now,
Their memory obliterated by time
Like the jasmine vine
That used to grow.
The sweet scent of the generations past
Drifts across the grave
And wafts away.
The gravestone crumbles a little more.