Even the dead tell stories,

The final machete fell at 5PM,

It’s echo rippling through the trees,

As the blood met the earth in a solemn dance.

The Crows and the Vultures swooped down,

Hungry not for flesh—but for memory.

As my mother’s eyes were plucked out,

I could’ve sworn I saw a tear fall down her cheek.

A drop of sorrow caught between the realms,

Like a farewell from the other side.