Death in a Brickfield

Go out and touch the world.
It isn't real.
All around will have that half-remembered-dreamlike feel.

They lie there with grey blue pools
Nestling on their faces,
Accusing stains of hated blood
Showing through.
A hyacinth floats by,
Caresses a woman lying in the mud,
Seems to notice she is dead
And hurries on.

The dogs linger,
Lick and chew,
Slithering determined sinking in the clay.
Some, sated, roll about in play,
Getting greyer, going grey;
The hollow wind doesn't scare them
As it flees
Carrying the message on its back.

And are they dolls that move among the corpses,
Deep in their childish search?
The wind numbs, but not so much.
Each stoops, a rotten body underneath the touch.
A brother? A sister?
Nothing any more is real
Even bodies have that half-forgotten-lifelike feel.