The Gravedigger

One, two, three…eleven
Eleven holes he has dug
since morn­ing
His toil breaks his hands and his heart
Hands he will get
but heart?
Anoth­er explo­sion near­by
The death tolls hour by hour
He firm­ly grips his shov­el
A lot of work to do
before the night falls
Sur­round­ed by corpses all around
and flip­ping the dust over his shoul­ders
he whis­pers
“He should dig his own pit before the whole city changes into a giant grave­yard.”