Scene: a small graveyard surrounding the church of St Mark outside Vienna,
7th December 1791 beside a common grave. Present: Sussmeyer, Salieri, Baron van Swieten.
Shivering in the cutting East wind I gaze about..
Where are all the people?
There should be crowds.
Why aren’t people lined up ten deep around
this insignificant hole?
This death affects the entire world.
Babies unborn will be lulled by his work.
Generations to come will mourn
this life cut short too soon.
The scent of crushed grass tickles my nostrils,
Making my eyes water unaccountably.
Grown men don’t cry. Do they?
The prompt at Octpowrimo today asks for an epitaph poem. I confess this one’s not new, but this day is a frenzied one for me.