The Grave of the Border

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.