Trunyan an Island in Bali

An island where the death are laid
Alone perhaps the eternal rest
An open cemetery
Not buried
Left to lie at rest
With eyes no longer seeing
The sky above
A phantom state
An epitaphic being

Relics of those
Who came before
Scattered in the sun
Dined upon by beetles
And ants and overun
With age a shrine of soulfulness
A scattering perhaps
A picture of mortality
Finally underwraps

An island now in Bali
An island of the dead
A Sweet smelling tree
The story goes
Perhaps the air is fed
By lifelessness and peacefulness
Behold the scampering hordes
The reapers and the levellers
With their tiny swords.

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