* * *
Creaking bones, grinding teeth, a failure in the ability of the mud to muffle the voices of the bodies it covers.
And we say to the murmuring bodies: sleep now forever in the thick and unsleeping mucilage.
And they say: what does the air look like, what does the ceiling look like, what does the blood on the hands, on the walls, on the floor look like?
And we say: the countries are covered up now, the rivers are covered up now, the fathers and mothers are covered up now, the doctors and soldiers are covered up now, the borders are covered up now.
And as the voices from the cover up murmur, we wait for the water to push down the walls, to lift up the cots, to make the dormitory sink through the floor or float off into the mud of the groaning, burbling night.
* * *