I can not believe the words:
“everyone carried one of the 92 coffins, bodies
exhumed for proper burial.”

And
“blood poured out of the bullet holes in him like water
through newly open tributaries”

Have been written
In Ink. On paper.


And that is all.

We are not so shamed by our brothers and sisters death. We have our hands but not our wits. We have our words, our names. The words again. The names again. Ink after all is only ink. Name only a name. A momentary salve on our burned fingers, while our hips canker and sour.


I am through with words.