Generations stood here marvelled at
the spot. The little green undulating,
knoll, the frost settling air, spilling
sound. Now no noise from opened
mouths, no wail of crazy motor car,
no whiz of kids buckled down in baby
seats; no passengers roaring for speed.
If families could stand all day they would
silently mourn this spot where men
grabbed guns and fired shots, intestines
stretching twelve metres. Now skeletons
are buried here, deep in Nephrateri
tomb, a womb for gestation, a hollow sort
of blackness, enshrined in eyeless lights
gorged out by worms, slowly creeping
then crawling through— an endless intonation.
It’s underground, white and calcium
the earth feeds, nourishing generations
where blue oxygen contains your father’s bones.
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