All those beautiful
bodies waiting in line.
And the horses
loaded at the gates.
The old magpies circle above.
Their movements
dull and graceless.
No wonder we all
think about death.
It’s not their fault I suppose.
After all there is only
victory or the soft way.
But I waited with
the beautiful people.
And we all looked
up to the moon
through the raindrops.
As if everything
had been forgotten.