Tired static over old A.M. radios, voices like ghosts, slurring Slavic,
the faded label on a bottle of Stolichnaya
Burnt embers on the tip of shaking cigarettes, flicked into open space,
falling like snow flakes
Tired eyes half shut, dimly replaying a far away song behind flickering
eyelashes
No smiles, no laughs, no interruptions of voice or spirit to dislodge this sublime
apathy
Quotes from Mehmedinović on crumpled pieces of paper, jammed into pockets or
wallets
Blue bands around the arms so his comrades know who to shoot
at
The laughter of children, who have seen so much sorrow, to laugh is
to cry
These children become men, to pick up their guns, and join friends
as corpses at the base of Lapišnica
"This is the way it's always been, Sasha." hollow voices repeat, thin as
reeds, breathing the phrase many times a day
Overturned like a cup of bad coffee, lives spilled on the floor and left
to dry
Boot prints in the mud, one after another, someday they'll collect grass
and we'll all forget
Shining brass casings among the lilies, someday they'll be covered by weeds
and we'll all forget
The walls will be rebuilt, plaster spread, lives sewn together like ripped
clothing
Someday we’ll all forget, this blessing of
silence