Do they also bury with our dead
the bullets that killed them?
And will these death projectiles
serve as witnesses?
Those cold heavy pieces of lead,
will they testify for the lives they took?

Won’t they remember
the men who loaded them
and the ones who gave the orders?
Their cold iron aimed at what was
far more than warm flesh and bones.

Will the bullets whisper the names
of those donning wool cloaks?
Those
who couldn’t outrun the ambush
will now stand warm
—like the woven wicker pots they carried—
and look at their cold killers
from somewhere
where they can no longer be killed.

From there,
at the final hour of retribution
—as sweet for the warm
and as bitter for the cold—
mirrors will be shown
and then broken.

A broken mirror
— sharper than the furnace-forged knives —
a divine shard of right and good,
unlike the cold lead,
will pierce the heart
and sink the dark souls
into a puddle
leaving them in perpetual pain,
serving immortal justice…