Our dead are silent icons
on the whitewashed wall of the old church,
pigeons on the tower,
moss in the grave garden.
In the south, bells ring
and the hills ¶old
it vibrates in the cone,
in the gravel on the stream bed.
The water is cold, cleaner than anything else.
We wash ourselves.
Ebí We rest in the sun,
peace and hope in our hearts.

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