The Immortals

These rocks. 
the graves and cradle of whose,
are same,
I wonder what they speak of,
about this world,
beings spiralling meaninglessly,
false and lame,
Are they joyous,
on being immortals?
Or do they too seek death,
to escape the inescapable?

 Whispers of the bygone,
and the spirits still caught,
in the circle,
they say their wailing is heard,
their piercing mourning,
as the voiceless night prevails,

 Sitting there, 
these cobblestones,
static and unemotional,
enduring and timeless,
are they blessed, or are they cursed?

 (c) S.S

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