The Unquiet Grave

I am stretched on your grave, and you will find me there always; if I had the bounty of your arms I should never leave you. Little apple, my beloved, it is time for me to lie with you; there is the cold smell of clay on me, the tan of the sun and the wind.

There is a lock on my heart, which is filled with love for you, and melancholy beneath it as black as the sloes. If anything happens to me, and death overthrows me, I shall become a fairy wind-gust down on the meadows before you.

When my family thinks that I am in my bed, it is on your grave I am stretched from night till morning, telling my distress and lamenting bitterly for my quiet lovely girl who was bethrothed to me as a child.

Do you remember the night when you and I were under the blackthorn tree, and the night freezing? A hundred praises to Jesus that we did nothing harmful, and that your crown of maidenhood is a tree of light before you!

The priests and the monks every day are angry with me for being in love with you, young girl, when you are dead. I would be a shelter from the wind for you and protection from the rain for you; and oh, keen sorrow to my heart that you are under the earth!

This translation from the book entitled 'A Celtic Miscellany', Penguin Books, Penguin Classic Edition 1951.

The above is an Irish lament. A song based upon it is "I am Stretched on Your Grave", which has been done by several artists. In every version I've ever found it is haunting.

I find myself drawn to it today. I went home to visit my family, and my grandmother had CNN on all day. So I saw images of the men and the woman whose bodies were recovered during the rescue of POW Jessica Lynch, as well as the hundreds if not thousands of remains found by British soldiers in Basra--remains that may be years old, and an execution centre. Perhaps they are some of the thousands of Iraqis that have "disappeared" during the regime of Saddam Hussein. Regardless of their origin, it would seem they should have had more dignity than to be stacked up in a warehouse of coffins.

Each of those individuals--American, Iraqi, or whatever nationality--lived out a life and probably died a tragic, early death. Each person had family somewhere who mourns their loss. Perhaps there is a lost love, or a son, a daughter, a brother, a sister, keening a lament in whatever language and according to whatever customs they keep. For the Americans, their families know they are dead. The dead are hopefully at peace. Those of us who watch the news, who did not know them, can still feel loss. As for those whose remains are in Basra, though--at this point we do not know who they were or whether their families know their fate. They truly are the unquiet dead. Until someone who knew them can mourn properly, I offer this lament from my own heritage. Rest in peace. Salaam aleikum (my apologies if that's not appropriate--it's the only Arabic phrase I know involving the word peace). May you be avenged.