In the cemeteries of those who had family, and were loved, there is a quiet, a silence of the voice, and of the soul that moves through a soul like a river through a land. In the cemeteries for those without family, and who died without any sort of acknowledgement the silence is different, not at all unlike the silence the dead faced in life.
The ravens circle the cemeteries, not caring which they land upon. The dead are dead, after all, without fanfare or majesty of life to announce their place, their due retinue, or their societal position deserving of respect. The grass has grown up here, it has obliterated the names on the stones that lay flat to the ground, and rise above the names on the shorter tombstones that stand. But sooner or later, this graveyard will be forgotten, as almost all are. Except by the ravens.