They say we carry the dead with us,
And most are surprised by the weight.
We hoist them up on our shoulders,
And imagine our strength is adequate.
But invariably we fault and stumble.
We stagger and trip and fall.
We can’t see a way out of this trouble.
Each partition becomes a wailing wall.
We drop them in the middle of our marriage.
We trip over them when we try to dance.
We always feel disparaged,
As the dead look on askance.
So bury your dead before too long.
Let them rest and rot in the ground.
And you’ll find you will grow strong.
If you don’t keep the corpses around.