Over 180 miles of tunnels
traverse like snakes through dirt paths.
Some will lead to wine cellars, large murals,
mushroom farms or faces of death.
I am one of those faces
in this chaos of bone and memory,
just another skull in a crowd of six million
piled atop broken femurs and tibias.
It is always midnight cold here
in this garden of limestone;
the moon will cast a beacon of light
when it tires of a quiet, starless sky.
That is when the voices grow louder,
when the moaning becomes endless.
It is an opera of the dead
with no audience or standing ovation.
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