We have arrived in the mid-autumn time,
We remember our dead,
With both their lives re-lit in lights sublime
And dirt upon their heads.
Be they still in their well-dressed box embalmed,
Or carried in an urn,
The warmth of life, long now has left their palms,
The wheel now takes a turn.
So here we are on this side of dirt,
While sands are falling down,
Echo their love, and then tend to the hurt,
We too shall be the ground.