The Gravedigger

Back to their maker he sends them,
Shovel at his right shoulder, and his dirty boots
Another day, another hole, so he bends to dig
The earth resists, but he persists, his labor a ritual

His hands, a map of wrinkles, his back, a canvas of pain
He unearths the secrets, hidden beneath the plain
The dirt, a witness to his toil, the shovel, his faithful friend
Together they craft, a story that will never end

He grunts, he digs, he throws it behind him
He shapes it, he stands in it. His six feet posture almost disappears underneath

As he becomes one with the earth’s dark breath
The scent of decay, the taste of old bone
Echoes of lives lived, now forever overgrown

He grunts, he digs, in rhythm with the land
A symphony of sorrow, etched on his hand
Each shovelful a story, each hole a name
The gravedigger’s litany, an endless refrain

In this somber waltz, he’s the sole participant
Dancing with shadows, where darkness is the accompanist
Yet, in his labor, a strange solace he finds
A connection to the earth, a peace that’s left behind