Poetry

Disconnecting tragedy 
you live again, 
in myths 
and illusions. 
 
The grit. You lack the spine. 
Rocks. 
A slide. 
The chicken. 
 
The cow-pathway 
leads to a barn of a mud hut, 
where you stand every evening 
to welcome the hoofs dust. 
 
That tells the history, 
the pain of unknowing, 
revealing the name 
of a killer. 
 
There was silence 
interrupted by a shriek. 
Someone was rising 
from the grave. 
 
The inert things start moving.