DevMode
Bring out - medals
from the boxes - of the dead.

We won the war
said the amputated leg
to the congealed foot
the gaping eye
to the empty eye.
The Diamond General
wants a victory album too.

We won the war
said the headless hen
on its last run round
the target yard.
We won the war
said the baby
to the dugs of her dead mother.

We won the war
said the infusion
and dripped.
We won the war
said the infusion
and dripped.
We won the war
said the shreds of flesh
to the pious men gathering them.
We won the war
said what was left
in the wheelchair.
Crutches clapping limbs
stumps plucking requiems
on harps of illusion.

Albums of stench. We lost.

Translated by Ruben Riva








Photo by Rafi Bayer

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