A dim-lit yard with slowly dying grass
Does not well hide the withering gardens made-
Some blooms replanted as the seasons pass;
Some left where they once were, and there they stayed.

Few bear witness as the flowers fade,
Their thoughts on whom they've been planted beside.
One by one, their visits each are paid
To them who only in this yard reside.

As for the hosts, their rudeness shows their pride;
They silently ignore their every guest
And in their silk-lined, wooden beds they hide-
No force on Earth can interrupt their rest.

For all forget love from the life once led
When sleeping in the city of the dead.