Beckoning, the open gate,
On a summer morn;
Lonesome in the sun, sedate,
Yet a touch forlorn
Graves of many, long ago,
Who lived near this place;
Disrepair, but even so,
It’s a lovely trace
Sleeping, on the mountainside,
In a hundred beds,
Flowerings of humankind
Each last petal sheds
Let the trees grow strong and high
And the wind blow straight:
We’ll all be here by-and-by,
Past the open
Gate
To share is human:
