Grave Island, soft moist ridges
From summer, grows body dead.
Through winter, thus plant heads.
With golden epitaph stitches
Beautiful creatures in a homely death
Through their monument, images cry,
Decorated with flowers, pretty and spry
Native worries, pity body dead.
Breeze as roses round blow
From the paves of sculptured stand,
Birds swings, sings from their flow,
As they smell the flower’s hand.
Broad day’s face goes anight;
Silent state still wind bright,
Pretty Island, places of lone,
As the resident stick to their own
It’s a peaceful place for us all
Waiting for our dated end time,
Willing to spread it’s warmly vine,
Ready for our body wasted all.