poetic aspirations 3

A borrowed place.

 

He was not yet cold when they brought him down.

Limbs flopping, bones catching,

lips still soft and charred,

saliva still congealing,

Slowly,

In the corners of his mouth.

 

They took him from us covered, bundled

inside grave clothes made from criminals rags

and his mothers robe

to lay him in a borrowed place,

 

Sleep peacefully, master.

We will come in the morning.

 

 

We wait for an empty dawn.

Heavy with broken bottles of spices,

and warm with women’s tears.

 

Nothing from us.

We only have eulogies to give.

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