By Yasen Vedrin
(Pearl Seeker)
A faith was possessed by the Thracians of old,
When burying some wealthy ruler and king,
To lay in his tomb all his jewels and gold,
For him to take down to the next world and spring.
Within the dark grave, they would also enclose
Some coins and an artfully crafted rhyton.
To drink with the gods divine nectar he chose,
Receiving by right a grand, heavenly throne.
They held a great feast when a life had passed by,
And when the old man took his final departure,
For somewhere out there, life won't stop in the sky,
And there it is better, and lighter, and brighter.
The ruler turned slowly to skull and to bone,
Decomposed into mold, turned to dust and away,
But later, uninvited guests to his stone
Would rob the grave quickly with swiftness and prey.
The ancient old customs have somehow decayed.
The mounds and the ridges of old left behind,
Were plundered by bands of grave-robbers delayed,
With pickaxe, a shovel, and adzes to find.
And it became clear — that a man doesn't bear
To the world right beyond either title or land.
An enigma is grave. Full of questions and care.
Why live this vain life that we don't understand?
Oh, there is the truest of gold up above!
The purest of silver you’ll find in that space!
But one must live richly, with spirit and love,
To turn to a Temple for God and His grace!
From earthly realms walking the Heavenly Way,
Surpassing the Thracians with faith and with call —
A life more sublime than what Orpheus could play
Awaits you up there, past the grave and the fall.
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