POSTCARD

c 2000 Tristan Winter

We always followed the customs

gladly

died at the whim of smirking tycoons

Senators with heads of iron

Priests made of lard

who all called this eternity

Our friends were the best

vigilantes informers liars brute dreams

Our guides were police

who built complete cities

of dark sour alleys

Life was good

they told us

Those who were arrested were never seen again

Those who were shot were never arrested again

We were firewood

Singing wounds

Bringing color and joy to the land