We have walked on tiptoe
over the piled-up bodies.
None of them raised a hand
to grasp us by the ankle
and so remind us of the mists
of their native shores.
They remained silent,
camouflaged among the thistles,
and no one gave them burial.
When the mud of the rains
submerged them from our sight,
we poured upon that earth
barrels of tar, the better to walk
proud of our homeland.

Hypotheses, p. 15