I sing
of battlegrounds;
Vultures dragging my heart
through the muddy grounds
and deserted prayers,
abandoned fields,
leaving it there
to rot at sunset,
throwing it around
shooting it back and forth
as if it were a bullet,

while it's a heart.

There is one vulture
that takes a long flight,
a deep dive,
plunging its beak far into the flesh
and ripping out its insides,
tearing off its pale skin
as a final symbolic gesture,
like how they often shoot
once more at a dead man,
leaving it unprotected
for the rats and armored tanks,

...

until the sun rises
and revives the corpse
of a hardened soldier.