With the parting of the doors
they come:
the pale-faced and hollow-eyed
with no memory of
how or when they died
and so became zombified.
With the parting of the doors
they come:
the lumbering, leaden-footed creatures
lured by the lights; the draw of
the noise: the beeps and
the drones and the endless
lazy drawl of authority.
The sentries watch -
stationed at their posts, a
mouldy Terracotta Army -
bleary-eyed and weary,
called to arms early and
clutching their guns
like pillows.
With the parting of the doors
they go:
the shuffling, mumbling crowd
shepherded by the soldiers
and waved on their way
into the rising, blinding light
of just another day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem