The metal jackets of bullets
rust in the dark river
beyond the weaving grass.
Lightning bugs rise up
in their landscape gaping
with old graves overgrown.
Tractor guts rot and ripped
up soil becomes nutritious.
No echoes, no partition,
the local people still know
the same roads they did
as children, still the fruit trees
still stone and paving
still armistice in the evening.
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