With the same chill down our spines
dead, she takes our picture.
Behind the masks
an old leprosy
gnaws at the faces.
We hide our murderous hands,
and tear up a flower on the path
for the picture.
She, she takes our picture
Well-dressed cadavers
speak of happiness
we grasp the knives
in the pockets of terror
we smile with an air of intimacy
at the next victim
We lie down under the radiant sun
She takes our picture