All that is left of us
are whispers of blood,
of cries of mercy,
and the man knocking on the door.
We think there is more;
ashes, photographs, memories, but
in reality, they’re returned,
and the cycle repeats.
Every time we end up fading away,
despite our cries,
despite our papers,
despite being human
and having nothing to our names.
Done, we threw our humanity away
the moment we saw the grass on the other side.