The dead will bury the dead
the living will take care of their own
one day, so will you.

Words from the bottom:

“I sit here with myself alone
you did this to me
you were the raven pecking at my flesh
you were the crack
that brought down the house
you were the thread
that unraveled the knot
you were the words
I never wrote
you were the prison
and I could not tell the guard
from the wall
you were the door that closed
the window that did not open
the stairs that I did not descend
the stone that is thrown.”
And here you look down
speak no more and are troubled.¹

¹ “e qui chinò la fronte,
e più non disse, e rimase turbato.”
Dante, Purgatorio, III, 44-45.