They had nothing to say to each other.
In the depth of the grave there are few words between lovers,
all conversation long past,
given over to freshly churned dirt,
the enclosure of polished wooden coffins.
Polished wood for a young pair
buried under one tombstone in two coffins.

The coffins, perhaps, are the worst.
There can be no embracing now, six feet from the sun.
There can be no worms and flies,
no rotting suits,
no withered flowers,
but too there can no embrace.

There can be no selflessness,
there can be no joy,
no submission of needs and wants,
nor summer days filled with anticipation
with preparation,
nor toil backbreaking that brings a smile to the face.
No toil can be done in earnest,
to feed the mouths of hungry children,
children that were never born.

There can be hell.
Its burning fingers of flame can pull through the dirt,
sifting it, sorting it.
There can be an embrace of flame,
for two lovers separated by coffins and dirt.
Flame for two that cannot embrace.

There could be hell were it not for the song heaven,
a liquid water that rushes through the earthly,
a melting of ice that leaves life in its path,
life and a heat that never burns.
There can be heaven, for there can be hope.