Listen, how at midnight, from darkness, the wolves growl, how, along the road, squeaks the half-frozen, white, fir-tree; under the fir-tree gapes out the pit, bleeding corpses cut free; above the pit, the midnight shadows, shoulder to shoulder, in a prowl... On the bottom of the pit, the dead, forehead to forehead, in frozen sludge, as if on order, the pupils, from darkness into darkness, stare: the tears have long since rolled down into the icy glare; in each dead look illuminates a burned down village in swollen smudge. Look how the dead souls lag alongside the steady human trail, wondering why the hungry typhoid, still, don't join in. The dead souls are wailing, the wounds, old and new, hurt in spin; hunger peeping from their garments, the dead souls lag so frail. The wolves are howling, the bloody knife growls above the pit... Under the knife, father and son, butchered, are quiet by the moon lite. The dead shadows, glancing at behind, turn yellow in fever, at the sight. Down in the pit, corpses embrace; outside, even the death escaping the slit... Ivan Marjanovic De Tonya for Croatian poet Ivan Goran Kovacic.