THE GRAVE OF THE BORDER
The grave of the border,
Split in two
By the border line,
Inside, some bones
And a skull,
Without a shroud, cast in the mud.
Covered with the same earth
By the hands of states
Without shovels.
Trampled day and night
By nail-studded boots.
One pair at the head,
Another at the feet, row by row.
With a bullet hole in the skull,
Its path of entry and exit,
Sparks flare
In our eyes.
A foggy haze,
A grave with its back
In its belly.
No name on the stone,
Birth and death
Without date.
Like rainwater,
Pain and fatigue pour down
On both sides.