The cemetery is a vacuum that does not welcome sound, neither the wailing of hearts, the gnashing of teeth, nor the crunching of shoes. And most certainly not the laughter of children. Sound is anathema to a graveyard, to those who have gone to their big sleep. The only sounds permitted are those as the departed souls meet their maker, and the departed bodies rot back into the soil.
Water trickles down the bricked in creek, gurgling as it flows over jagged stones, and swirls around the slightest of bends. Leaves of autumn crunch underfoot as they lie strewn across the path, across the access, indeed, across the very plots themselves. Wind rushes through the she-oaks that line the avenues into the necropolis. The slightest of zephyrs plays with the dried layer of leaves, revealing the damp mould beneath.
The dead are oblivious to all this. They are otherwise occupied.