I remember crossing the bridge alone beneath the wispy willows,
the sound of my footsteps echoing dully as I crossed its wooden planks.
I can still recall the way the gates and their black bars shone,
whether the glint came from moonlight or from the sun,
and how those great gates were thrown open as if to welcome all--
some ascending to heaven, some Hell-bound, and the rest of us just visiting.

The pebbled path was a joy to walk along (I liked kicking the tiny rocks about),
but nothing was as pleasurable as strolling among the tall gray stones in the grass.
I would sit and walk amid the crooked rows for hours, forgetting the world outside,
reading unknown names until they became familiar, if sometimes unpronounceable,
memorizing their resting places just as their families and friends must have.

And just as those loved ones sought out certain ones and ignored the others,
I, too, had my favorites, visiting them more often than their own kin--as far as I knew--
but of course I understood that I must have loved them for very different reasons.
For while others would come to express sadness at their parting,
I, an admiring stranger, came to reflect and smile upon their tombs.