Can you put lilacs on a grave,

and watch as sorrowed hands

throw their first fist of

dry and cold flaked earth.

Some would throw a rose

with its strong scarlet bloom;

a memory of lost passions

in a tumultuous memory.

Throw lilacs, for if there scent

means nothing to you,

will it bother you as to

which grave they enhance?

They are the flower

of perhaps, indifferent muse,

they may not evoke past passions

or even great derring do.

Yet in your honest hour,

what else will disguise

the lonely scent of death.