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About a year has passed.
I've returned to the place of the battle to its birds that have learned their unfolding of wings from a subtle lift of a surprised eyebrow or perhaps from a razor blade - wings now the shade of early twilight now of state bad blood.
Now the place is abuzz with trading in your ankles's remanants bronzes of sunburnt breastplates dying laughter bruises rumors of fresh reserves memories of high treason laundered banners with imprints of the many who since have risen.
All's overgrown with people.
A ruin's a rather stubborn architectural style.
And the hearts's distinction from a pitch-black cavern isn't that great; not great enough to fear that we may collide again like blind eggs somewhere.
At sunrise when nobody stares at one's face I often set out on foot to a monument cast in molten lengthy bad dreams.
And it says on the plinth "commander in chief.
" But it reads "in grief " or "in brief " or "in going under.
" 1985 translated by the author.

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