The City of the Dead

" They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn ."
Laurence Binyon, Poet Laureate Great Britain


   Today we went to the Cemetery. I like some cemeteries.  I am not a ghoul but I do appreciate the cemeteries  where the crypt is meant for the family, no matter where they were during their lives, whatever they got up to or who was mad at them in the end, they generally always ended up in the Family Crypt. 
It must have had a sort of comfort to the thought, wherever I go in life, whatever I do, whomever I spend my time with, there will come a day that I will be back with the family. 
Of course, if you don't think much of the family, this would not appeal to you.
But I like the idea ..


This Cemetery is much like Pere LaChaise in Paris. Both "cities of the dead" ..  
Large, full of Art Nouveau mausoleums , paths or aisles and impossible to stay for the amount of hours it would take to view everything. Full of cats that are sweet and well cared for and right smack in the middle of a very nice neighborhood in a nice huge city.
Not knowing all the names in the history of Argentina, we were not as able to appreciate a lot of the stories that must have been behind so many of the tombs, but that does not make it any less enjoyable.


Imagine it as spending the day in a museum, an out-door museum, full of wonderful sculptures and stained glass. And also full of long gone inhabitants of the city that many of them helped build, found, protect .. where they taught, worked, painted, wrote and lived and had families who still are being buried there.


This is Recoleta Cemetery

It really does look like a City of the Dead, doesn't it ?

This is such a wonderful example of Art Nouveau  .. imagine, being buried in a work of art !

 If I know the story correctly, this is the tomb of a girl  was declared dead by the doctor. She was buried . The man who worked at the Cemetery reported that he had heard sounds. 
They opened the tomb and found that she had not been dead when buried. 
Her mother, in her grief, had her tomb made of glass, so she would be seen. 
Fresh flowers are always left , in her hand. Notice the little cat, napping there by the dogs foot. 
Next will be the Angels. The City of the Dead can be a City of Angels too.

Do not stand at my grave and weep, 
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow, 
I am the diamond glints on snow, 
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star that shines at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there,
I did not die ..


On an unmarked grave at Montmarte Cemetery, France