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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=513441" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Cemetery Yard</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It takes me fifteen minutes walking fast, but not that far<br>Three rights, a left, then straight ahead to Cemetery Yard<br>It sits upon the corner of Macarthur and Fleet Streets<br>I go there every Wednesday to see ghosts I like to meet</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The entry is medieval with it's gated ironwork bars<br>But there hasn’t been a gatekeeper for many, many years<br>So I walk right in and I can have a conversation with<br>The Captain Robert Cunningham or wife of Mister Smith</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And who these dried up people were back then God only knows<br>For their tombstones only have their names and some don't even show<br>But I speak to them like they’re alive or maybe I am dead? <br>But either way I'm speaking to them all within my head</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Captain Robert Cunningham says 'Thanks for coming here<br>'Cause back in eighteen sixty five it was the very year<br>I was in a bluish uniform when under an attack<br>I was aiming for confederates when shot straight in the back'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At which time I find I'm lacking in appropriate reply<br>Over all the awe that I now feel about his sacrifice<br>'Well Captain, not that much has changed and I can’t really lie<br>The question is not who we were, but how it was we died'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the grave of Mrs. Smith next to him quietly there sits<br>Calling out for my attention, so attention I do split<br>And she tells me that one Christmas Eve while milking in the barn<br>Two red faced angry Indians strode in and she was harmed</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though she did whatever she could do to put up a good fight<br>They stuck a knife right through her on that territorial night<br>'Sara tell me, please, please tell me, am I right or am I wrong? <br>Do my children lay beside me, or did they live on and on? ”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the courage isn't in me 'cause the tombstone dates don't lie<br>'Mrs. Smith, it isn’t if we lived, but how it was we died'<br>And a couple hours later when it was time to go back home<br>And I felt that they were satisfied with being left alone<br>I turned around and looking down I asked them with a sigh<br>“You have all of the experience…How is it one should die? ”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Written by Sara Fielder © 2012</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sara+Fielder">Sara Fielder</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=513441" data-title="Cemetery Yard de Sara Fielder" data-description="It takes me fifteen minutes walking fast, but not that far
Three rights, a left, then straight ahead to Cemetery Yard
It sits upon the corner of Macarthur and Fleet Streets
I go there every Wednesday to see ghosts I like to meet

The entry is medi..."></div>
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