Here we do not weep our dead
Or carry their corpses by torchlight
Along a winding road
To the newly dug graves.

Here the dead cough their last brittle
Breath on their own. The monitor flatlines.
We unhook it and turn
All the switches to off.

No women wail or cry or shed tears
A phone call and a sweet apology
And then the next and then the next
And after that, the next.

Numbers are tallied, tabulated,
Shoulders are shrugged
Beds are made again.
Surely we did our best?

The newspaper turns to other news
Politicians go on holiday
Perhaps the worst is over.
What's a few thousand names?

Soon they will all be gone,
Only memories. Perhaps we'll
Have a memorial, somewhere on
A small plaza, at the far end of town.

Thousands cast into eternity.
Too many names to remember
Too many lives to hold
In an empty void of hearts.