Rocks on the ground and the blood between toes
two thousand
no less, it's cold and I feel like suffering.
You can't face death alone without knowing
the candles unlit, the bricks unbuilt, the letters
and language disseminated into tiny tears,
and tears do not stay
just the hole to let light in
just the clock on another's wrist
just the food that you're given.
I've no family here and the bones
underground with the blood
and the dirt and the ash in the sky
turned to sunsets and clouds
sixty five years after
souls slipped from bodies
by bullets and sickness
and I'm no good witness to murder.
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