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When they are dead
Their names are etched
Into stone —
Polished smooth
Marble, grey and white

But before that
They are washed
Wrapped in crisp, white
Shrouds

Set in parlours
Carefully placed
In brand-new caskets
To be buried in freshly dug holes
In prime real estate

People who
Never knew them
Gather — hushed and composed —
In rows and columns
Stand, sit and show —

Something they couldn’t
Didn’t
While the dead were still alive

With solemn faces
Teary eyes, cards
Condolences — rehearsed

Services arranged
Schedules printed
Pamphlets with prayers
And framed portraits
Pallbearers in suits and hats
Carry a wooden box
A shrouded body
As if it were royalty
Behind them, others follow
Traffic slows —
Then stops

Their pictures are placed
On bedside tables
Charities founded, shrines built
Biographies written
Statues carved
Crusades launched —
Wars fought —
Countries claimed

When they are dead —
Songs, anthems
Public holidays
Eulogies spoken
Elegies written
Flowers are laid
On their graves —
Even after decades

For whom
For whom is it all done
What drives it all

Grief —
Or what feeds on it —
On the dead and the living
Alike