The heavy-lidded dead
Can't open their coffins
They tried to buy freedom
With coin shaped rocks
They mined the dirt
Between skeletal fingers
And dropped their eyeballs
Trying to talk
The ground above
Resonates soundly
The feet of the living
Going to and fro
In permanent darkness
Cement vaults shudder
When earth movers come
To dig a new hole
Mourners stand
A few feet above them
Mumbling prayers
And telling their beads
They think they're gone
And dead in their caskets
Never knowing
How cold hearts bleed
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you for bringing their plight to our attention. And it is told so masterfully and poetic by the informer. What a horrorble tale it is.... Jim Troy