“Breaking news: mass grave discovered nearby . . .”
Yesterday I went to forensic medicine. They asked me for a fingerprint
for DNA matching. They said that they had found some bones of
unknown origin. And every time I turn like an orange on the knife of
Now I am at home, Brother, wiping the dust off the artificial flowers that
surround your picture, and irrigating them with tears.
The medical report says that the bag of bones that I signed for receiving
today is “You”. But this is little. I spread them out on the table in front of
them. We have the account: a skull with six holes, one clavicle, three
additional ribs, a shattered femur, a pile of wrist bones, and a few
Is it possible that these few are a brother?
The medical report indicates that it can. I put the bones back in the bag.
I rubbed my hands of the earth sticking to them, then I blew the rest of
the earth off the table, put you on my back, and went out.
In the bus I sat the bag beside me. I paid the price of two seats (this
time it’s me who pays). Today I grew up enough to carry you on my back
and pay your bus fare.
I didn’t tell anyone that I had received this little amount. I watch your wife
and your children pass by close to the sofa that I left you on. I wanted
one of them to open the bag. I wanted them to see you for the last time.
But you were as stubborn as a bone. Afterwards they asked about the
traces of tears that were on the sofa . . .!
For an hour I have been arranging these moist bones in the bottom of
the coffin, attempting to complete you. Only the nails in the two sides [of
the coffin] know that this is little.