They carry the body out at 5.37 p.m on a Sunday.
Cloaked under shadows of cloth, in the blackness of
Death.
We lay dead-empty as we watched.
They hovered with bleached masks and lay hands, cold,
On the still colder flesh, They pressed flesh on flesh,
Imagined life in hallowed cheeks,
They tried to bring more out of 63 kg of
Flesh and bone, spoke to break the seal of death
With remembrance
The body rotted below the cloth
The body grew stiffer, colder
And nothing more