The people in the graves can’t be dead
It must be something more like sleep
Or a trick played on people instead
The dirt packed down, they strain and writhe and struggle
Yesterday will make you cry
Yesterday will make you fall down and die.
Three or four times a year
I will go alone to see them standing, impervious, there
Stained by time they stare back, gazing at nothing
Yesterday will make you cry
Yesterday will make you fall down and die.
I have found the landmarks and the junctions in this town
Tell a story, a secret history, like the people in the ground
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