dreams

In my dream, a headstone lies on a barrow hill, gently matted with the greenest of grasses. No rocks or stones or city-bones litter this land, before where I stand (beside the headstone). It's simple, not ornate, with a rounded top and squared-off sides, and the epitaph simply reads: here lies he who had not the bravery to believe, the heart to succeed, the courage to live or love or die, or the grace to give his life.
The ground was lightly tilled before the stone, and my favorite flowers grew there: snowdrops, bluebells, trilliums, and the purple button flowers whose name is lost to me. I bled, pained at this stark scene - is it my blood? whose blood is on my hands? why is there so much?
It is my dream, and I glance absently at my hands for days, wishing and wondering, but the sun stands still for me, and the flowers bloom most expectantly. Stooping down over the stone, I stroke lightly with my index finger the bottom of the stone. Standing back, the snowdrops seem to smile, and a few crimson roses bloom:
but he tried anyway.
Then I lay beside the bluebells and watched the stars rise, mine. Do I remember these?
My hands are clean.