Life, or the Absence of it

Today's sun saw a son, a young son, going six feet under the soil, by a sad, solitary hill. It is not spring yet, but it's not winter either; the mustard fields on either side of the M1 are in full bloom though; the sun tending to be hot, but the chilly wind by that solitary hill would make you shiver, or maybe it was the sense of grief that had engulfed the gathering under the rosewood trees--on the slope of that sad hill--or maybe both. Sitting on the higher side of the slope, on the sturdy grass of the graveyard--almost dead, but still showing some traces of life, you see the glowing dust of the grave blowing in the chilly wind below you. No sound but the spades working their way, and the occasional dead leaves falling from the dark, brown, rosewood trees. The chill takes over, you are tired of your otiose existence, your body starts aching with loneliness, and you wonder, if it would be cozier down there...