Candles on the Graves

On a summer Sunday, beneath a sky so wide,

I walked with my grandmother by my side.

To the grave of her love,

In her hands, a candle—white as clouded sky,

To honor the years, that went by.

A flame to speak the words unsaid,

A silent voice where tears once bled.

Around us, countless candles burned,

Some stood tall,

some was faint.

Some flickered,

Some leaned on others,

Some unaware.

Some faded swiftly, wax undone,

Some endured, though left alone.

And there, among them, hers stood bright,

Bearing burdens, casting light.

But soon, its wax began to wane,

The fire dimmed.

The ones it held still stood their ground,

Yet he, at last, made not a sound.

With a final flicker, the flame faded.

A farewell hand, a soft goodnight.

I turned to my grandmother’s weary eyes,

And in them, acceptance was not a surprise.

Hand in hand, we walked away,

As she wove her memories,

Stories of him, of love and light,

EPILOGUE

This was written during the visit to the cemetery of by grandfather with my grandmother. There i saw a lot of people lighting candles for there loved ones and a though sprung on my mind. i asked to myself why was there a candle, Why not a flower or a wreath, Then i understood something these candles symbolizes the life of the  deceased. In there i found different types of candles big and small thick and thin. Some started burning brightly some faintly may be it was what there life was like.