I stood by a wall made of granite and gray,
Names etched in silence, the dates gave them sway.
No pulpit could teach what those stones let me see—
Precilla once lived, and now speaks to me.

 

Her years were but sixty and six in the sun,
Now quiet and still, her journey is done.
Yet something she stirs in the core of my soul—
A whisper that life is both fleeting and whole.

 

I'm inspired by the dead, not by the preachers,
They show me the truth more than sermons or teachers.
They teach with their silence, not thunder or flame,
That life is a gift the preacher won't name.

 

Though distant our births, and oceans apart,
We both shaped our stories, we both had a heart.
She lived as a woman in culture-bound roles,
I was gifted a mother who questioned most goals.

 

Still, we both hoped and we both knew fear,
We laughed, we ached, we drew others near.
We danced in the dramas of joy and regret,
And shared in a wonder we never forget.

 

I'm inspired by the dead, not by the preachers,
They show me the truth more than sermons or teachers.
They teach with their silence, not thunder or flame,
That life is a gift the preacher won't name.

 

Ruben was young—just forty and one,
A story half-written, abruptly done.
Mercolita lived till the age of eighty-eight,

What she saw, what she bore, I can only speculate.

 

And Stefhanie—child of five tender years,
Brings flowers and silence, and maybe some tears.
But her name speaks loud in that small, sacred space,
Of the beauty that time cannot fully erase.

 

So here in this place where the living feel small,
I hear a great truth that outshines them all:
Not in the preaching, but stone-carved and still,
They awaken my awe, rebirthing life’s thrills.

 

I'm inspired by the dead, not by the preachers,
They show me the truth more than sermons or teachers.
They teach with their silence, not thunder or flame,
That life is a gift the preacher won't name.