They are the ashen ones. They are the extinguished.
They are smouldering wood

Half-burned and buried under layers of slime
they have been escaping for ages.

Each second grows a hundredfold in passing

It's my job now to dig their beds
To tuck them in tenderly under sheets
under coverlets of mud

They are our mothers our fathers. I must find their bones
I must dig hundreds of graves holes bunkers I must
rummage through ages of sorrow anger ash and blood.