After the surrendering soldiers were herded to the beach and the sun decided to blind the tourists from the scars:

Close your eyes, don’t look at the 300  seaweed-framed gravestones of men/boys buried in the sand 

Island of death is now island of gold, complete with war camps and chalets

Island of death is now island of quarrels, complete with casinos and Rolex displays

Golf course buggy car tries to ignore the warring skeletons underneath and 

Awakens the spirits who bemusedly flock to the harbour looking for pirates, compass hand already awry

In the queue, how many more restlessly manifested a turn in this waiting room for death

Sentences are issued with grotesque triangular stamps for handing out pamphlets that try to eclipse the rising sun, covertly mailing cheques overseas 

The bayonets know where the 70 000 wilting bodies are; on paper, 5000. 

Listen: they are reciting all the yellowed audio books from the demolished archives that are now hotels