This is a dark pastime,
Holding back the dogs,
They tussle for your body
And want to devour it.
They have already
Bitten off your sister's feet
And your little dead son
Almost torn to pieces.
You lie in frost so new and white,
Your body appears living,
I shovel in the winter ice
Single-handedly your grave.
But tomorrow in a mass grave
Must you rest with many others,
I would come gladly down to you
Instead of wandering away from here.
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