There are those who hold marked places,
and those whose place is in the sky.
Most have long forgotten faces,
and a few never said goodbye.
There are those who rose in thick smoke,
from fires whose flames were fanned by hand
and cautiously, carefully stoked
while, to the last coal, they were manned.
There are those whose stones grew mossy -
keepers now buried at their side.
And those with headstones so glossy
who've only just finished their ride.
And all will vanish in due time,
there's only the fortunes to say
whose tales will be told at bedtimes,
and who will vanish to smoke gray.
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