Photo by Hai Tran on Unsplash

twenty-twenty

He/she/it knows you’re a hungry brave soldier but we serve only flowers for dead...
And may you stop screaming all at once, no we don’t know, we don’t even understand your demand.

Garlic tea, not quite garlic, not quite tea.
A brave soldier learns to keep a dry mouth in silence, and loss of breath commences singing the most blossom touches of melancholy to the hearing deaf, to the living dead.

Money on the grave?
No, just plastic flowers.
You must not come again.
Me neither, in hindsight.