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Not every death is worthy of death My death is by retail in a wholesale war, My death is by wholesale in a retail war, Death according to those alive standing in the condolence line, to biography writers, to wreath buyers, and to spectator hunters in open air theatres, Death commensurate with the amount of life given to those who deal with it

Satellites explore a soldier’s single shoe after a desert storm, While the covered dead bodies pile up or are dispersed every which way: Nothing’s wrong if they were buried in mass graves, Without the presence of their families, Without TV or newspaper photos, For the national flags are not appropriate as shrouds for them, Only for others!

It is not sufficient that you die, But where you die, and in whose company, For the one who has died is someone they look for, and who then they miss, They make sure that his seat remains warm after his departure, That his life story has a lit oil candle:

The one who has died is a rash future governed by time past, He does not wait for anyone, and no one plans to meet him, He leaves deep engravings in antique friezes.

He irons his tongue and clips his teeth As soon as he wakes up,

Hands and blazing eyes wait for him in the mirror, And vast rows of spectators,

BANIPAL 53 – SUMMER 2015 27

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