I have a name, but it isn't my name.
My face shows signs of age.
I always mean the same thing, no matter what I say.
I'm born in mourning, and I last 'til the end of days.
Men plant me, but I never grow.
They run from me, but I never move.
They look at me and see their future, rotting in the fields where I bloom.
What am I?
Tombstone
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