Verse of Graves

Who owns these graves or others?
The grave where the flood enters?
The gifted Sumerian
Narrator is the owner.

The grave in the upland grass,
The slope of the hill? Gatha
Master of the cow-eyed soul
In the roots of that pasture.

The north grave is far away
For the two men who walked there.
The monks that wandered away
From the swords float in repose.

Whose grave is a mystery
To worlds that seek their authors?
The grave that everyone doubts?
Deities wander the waste.

Whose house is under the hill
Quadrangular, stones sunk deep
Under grass and withered leaves?
The daughter who never left.

The grave of the woods in snow?
The one who was hunted down
By axes, tree roots, branches
Advancing at his window?

Whose grave in two continents,
Lost to both of them, under
The tumultuous weather?
She understood disaster.

The grave on which ripe fruit falls?
The solemn burgher lies there
Having touched reality
And lost imagination.

By the ford a fresh grave's dug.
But who owns this grave? This grave,
Just this, and not another?
This grave? Ask me. I know it.