The Donetsk Morgue Poem by Leo Yankevich

<i>(October 2014) </i>

Some lie alone on carts,
while others who are new,
wait stacked up on the floor.
For you see: there’s a queue
inside the Donetsk morgue.

Death masks and private parts
here are processed and tagged,
cadavers on display,
mere torsos, arms and legs,
mouths open, nothing to say.

They can no longer hear
the whistle of big guns,
nor feel guilt in the nude.
Outside, their blood still runs
near where they went for food.

A black crow captures a tear
in the smart phone of its eyes,
and heaven welcomes peace
established by the flies,
and calls for their release.