The Grave
There is a grave by the side of the road. You see it when you take the busy main road between two cities - the name on the wobbly round stone is already fading, but occasionally you'll see fresh flowers dropped there that are telling you that for his beloved, Lukas is eternally haunting this, his crossroad. There is a grave by the side of the road. You encounter it as a small, indistinct knoll and wouldn't have noticed it - you need to know about the centuries old tumulus that was robbed by some crazy aristocrat 150 years ago. Surely the fiend inside is still raging. There is a grave by the side of the road. You stumble upon it when you take a short detour behind a bush to relieve yourself; there, a cross of cast iron with a helmet attached to it, and a sign that shows photographs full of swastikas and dubiously glorifying language tells you that a warplane crashed here a few decades ago. There is a grave by the side of the road. Memorials remembering of mass exterminations. There is a grave by the side of the road. You notice a stone cross in the garden of a stranger. You'll never learn the story behind it. There is a grave by the side of the road. You assume that this is the place where your father buried his first dog when roving through the forests of your childhood. There is a grave by the side of the road. You pass countless of nuns under uniform, small crosses, with only their untelling names as difference left to them. They were coaxed to forfeit everything else. There is a grave by the side of the road. Jewish cemeteries, sometimes overgrown, usually locked - the access is restricted to prevent further desecration. They are often the last remaining echoe of the local community. There is a grave by the side of the road. You see only a wooden sign with a dandelion and "Benny" on it, nailed to an ancient tree. There is a grave by the side of the road. You find the mental hospitals hidden cemetery, afar and clearly separated from the nearby villages proper graveyard. Anonymous, small stones for some, big monoliths for the directors. Four people died on a single day. Nobody remembers what happened back then. There is a grave by the side of the road. You have mass graves under your soles, still remembered and concealed by the elder population of the area. There is a grave by the side of the road. Nearly every culture plastered graves on the roadside. Some believe it was to provide entertainment for the dead. Others say that it was to remind the living about what is at the roads end.