If the dead were to rise

If the dead were to rise

Will they find
Love, hate or the place
Gone, without a trace;

The evening sky at prey
Darkness dipped farther
As if to hide
The deeds, prided in;

To bury all within
The music playing, stealthily
By the flying wings
Now at rest in those very trees;

No, the ghosts are not dead
They do not sing
They hear, they see them play
These very tunes.

Giverny, France- year 2010.