"To bring me to this library of graves,
This small clearing of scrubland.
There are no headstones, epitaphs, dates.
The ancestors curl and dry to scrolls of parchment.
They lie like texts
Waiting to be written by the children
For whom they hacked and ploughed and saved
To send faraway schools.
'Is foolishness fill your head
Dog-bone and dry-well.
Got no story to tell.
Just how me born stupid is so me gone.'
Still we persist before the grave