They say that this bay
is the biggest mass grave in whole world,
but it is hard to believe while standing
on an hollow rock in the city of pensioners
and overlooking the sea:
Green waves roll over a graveyard
whose carved headstones
have no names or dates
On the beaches the washed up clothes,
the rotting fishing boats over whose rails
refugees have been dumped into the sea
on foggy mornings.
Bits of memories float towards us
with the wind, unknown amounts
of testosterone, frustrated
without a future.