In the great city of the dead, gravestones and mausoleums seem to go on forever in every direction. Statues of angels and virgins and cherubs and even Jesus himself stand watch over the dead, even as ravens (an unkindness of ravens) watch over the marble and granite and stone.
In the great city of the dead, the breeze is always chilled and the grass never seems either overgrown or recently mowed. The clouds, even when fluffy and white, appear somewhat grayer and slightly trembling. The shadows feel thick and soundless.
In the great city of the dead, there is life, there is movement, and there is even song. Ravensong.
(From my upcoming novella, Necropolis)