i am hauling the ruins of war
the haggard ones passing by
fat wrinkles under the chin
they never were, but will be

the haggard ones will be
without having existed, on paper
leaden faces shining silverly
they don't know about existence

from the bazaars of being, they
steal the fruit of red dreams
sometimes they come to us,
walking around in cities, strayed

multiple faces, unrecognizable
a teint, hidden under cornmeal
they are hauling the ruins of war
heads hanging down to the ground