Men in Wolves’ Clothing
Calu asked, for Aita,
“what were you like?”
His wolf skin cap lowered.
“Hungry,” I answered,
“some would say good natured,
but burdened with a terrible numbness,
some cacaesthesic reaction to old ghosts.”
“A pity,” Calu spits,
“life is wasted on the living.”
Charun stands by, hammer in hand.
I am blindfolded,
Offered a cigarette,
Like a man facing the firing squad.
“I suppose that’s the punchline.”
The coup de grace lands.
I am sent forth into that caliginous sea,
And told to keep swimming.