In the half-light, we walk through woodlands that keep lost
children and old stones, shadowed by pines that seem to breathe
small prayers into the wind. Joggers weave silently around
tombstones like night creatures and we stare at them like ex-
otic and unreal things. By a bunker that once stored bodies
but now stores potatoes, we hear of how a girl died playing
hide and seek among the graves, knocked by a falling head-
stone into cold sleep; folded into the dirt. And how, undone
by the curious death, the people of the surrounding village
laid flat the remaining stones like a ritual, pulling them out
like old teeth and wrapping them back into the safety of earth.