Skip to content

Walk of the Dead

She with the half worm-infested face marches, among others, holding her long stick-candle,
It is her only guidance in the world of the living.
Her once long black beautiful hair,
Now hangs along her face like some rusty copper wires.
She half laughs, with her toothless mouth, remembering how long she spent in front of the mirror combing and cleaning every imperfection that her face showed.
She continues the march of the dead.
The heavy chains around her feet drag along the dusty road.
She cannot remember how she got here, one moment she was singing her favorite tune on the car, and the next she was walking among the other corpses.
It is an endless march. She thinks, but now she feels like it is almost the end. Just like when you feel you have almost arrived at your destination.
The night seems brighter,
The wind feels fresh and calm,
And she feels her dead beating, or perhaps is just her old human way of explaining things.
She feels her legs weakening, like the first time she saw him.

He with his long unshaved face, and military haircut that addressed her as “Madam,”
And a big smile that showed his perfect white teeth.
His long hands that grasped her short breasts when they made love and his strong back that carry her to ecstasy and the one that helped him to carry her on that fatal day.
Now she remembers how she opened her eyes, and he was there holding her hand as the medics injected her, a dose of who knows what. She tried to speak, but only soundless words came out. And she was gone; she wanted to say that she loved him.

Her tearless eyes search for those tears that are not there,
Her dead voice cords want to scream,
She mutters wordless cries.

The heavy clouds clean away,
The full moon shines down the street,
The other marchers disappear,
The candlelight extinguishes,
The chains turn to dust,
And she is the whole one last time.
Her naked figure walks like a feather up the last set of stairs,
Towards the light and she sighs.