I think it is laughing at me.
The way ink soaked into paper can laugh.
A way that is silent, malignant.
It seems amused.
That I have come to gawk, to gape.
Where my forefather once cut down other people's forefathers.
Like that of the brochure writer's.
Or did not.
I must trust the story the ink tells me.
For the blood soaked in the ground never speaks.