Morose

A land,
Fertile with graves,
Where they stand,
Cloaked figures,
Swords, spades or shovels?
What are those?
Digging the earth,
Bodies of the past,
Stacking them,
Those dead piles of dirt,
From which no plant grows,
No life flows,
Eternally dull,
And null shall they be,
Infertile never meeting star dust!