Puig des Molins

High on the hill of windmills
Rest the smiling bones of men.
Where the ten centuries old olive tree stands,
They walked ten centuries before,
And some, some centuries more.
Long gone their pink flesh and brown eyes,
Now they wear glossy green weeds.
Their brown age-stained teeth remain.
Where their friends carved out hypogea in the stone,
Placed painted ostrich eggs with them,
Tributes requesting a happy afterlife.
Now they smile for our phone cameras.