Dead men in the back of trucks –
Sometimes thrown in there by friends –
Sometimes not; hands bound.
Always though, lit by a low light –
Syria, Bosnia, Cork: the same light-
Like a Dogme film; the light of ’95.
Dead men in the backs of trucks –
Blood brown and crusty, they still look –
Like they might move, but for the smell.
Who were you, Brother, Father, Son?
and for what have you ended up –
in the back of a truck?
Whether a Coriolanus, or the most unknown –
They all look the same in the back of the truck.
Good men on all sides, they deserve better.