Each day sees me a richer man,
Yet each day my heart sinks a little further.
I look at my wealth and a sickness wells inside.
I feel ashamed as my name and fame are scattered;
I would rather remain unknown.
I accustom myself to jobs of all sizes,
but the smallest ones are always the hardest.
No amount of reasoning or working can make it right.
There’s no art to my work, nor beauty –
Just the cold hardness of necessity…
My fortune has been borne of blood and bone,
Of friend and foe alike.
My dream is redundancy and the chance to bury my past.
But then who would take care of me?
I would rather be a poor, poor man and hear the wind dance with a thousand cheery voices,
Than be the richest man in town, with silence as my only companion.
Solemn white crosses mark my fortune, and my grief.
I am the gravedigger.
This scribble was written on 26/10/03 as Steph and I passed through Bosnia and saw the still recent ravages of war. Without being too introspective, it’s hard not to feel affected by the remains of war when such an experience is so completely alien and (thankfully) foreign…