A sailor has to die - a poem by Chris Zachariou

The fratricides

The glorious colonel
—disguised as a future legend—
skulks in a musty cave, dispatching

urgent orders to his retreating army.

His killer squad with black hair,

long beards and knives blunt

from many years of senseless killings,

are furious to a man.

They’ve never earned a single piastre
for their many years of loyal service
and for this injustice, a sailor has to die.

The town policeman
—asleep in a hut nearby—
dreamt of the young man’s death
but he was shackled to his iron
mattress by cowardice and fear.

Wisps of matted flaxen hair
and pools of congealed blood
stain the tarmac and a crow sitting
on the left shoulder of the moon
with a black brush and an easel
paints the sailor’s death mask.

Schools of fish are

drowning in his glazed eyes,

worms and maggots crawl

in his gaping mouth and a red
boulder rests beside his temple.

Whispers sprouted in the streets.

Some said the sailor betrayed the revolution

but everyone in the town knew, the soldiers

killed the boy for his flaxen hair.