The truck makes its way along narrow streets loaded with doll-sized coffins currently
empty. The old driver’s face wears the same fixed expression every night as he tries
to distance himself from what he has to do. His grim task is to fill the boxes with the
bodies of those who have lived only shortly. Exposed to death's gaze while still wet
from the womb.
He stops outside a house whose occupants have left something for him to
collect. The old man gets out and stoops to pick up the baby girl, showing her the
tenderness her parents were unable to. He lowers her into the toy box coffin gently,
nails its lid down and places it in an empty spot, the first of tonight's 'done' pile. He
then returns to the cab to continue his grisly round.
Unseen pink fairies follow the truck like a river of light flowing, twisting and turning
in mid-air. At each stop a few drops come away to where the baby lay and whistle.
Whistle to distract the spirits that would otherwise follow the unfortunate child for
all times. They know she has suffered too much already, or perhaps not enough.
Certainly nothing to warrant any more disturbance.
Every night they gather and fly along the truck's path to ease the passage of the still
stirring spirits. Crying at the eternal horror of all they see. At the senselessness of
this practice. Especially when, outside the city, millions are killed by bayonet and
gun.
empty. The old driver’s face wears the same fixed expression every night as he tries
to distance himself from what he has to do. His grim task is to fill the boxes with the
bodies of those who have lived only shortly. Exposed to death's gaze while still wet
from the womb.
He stops outside a house whose occupants have left something for him to
collect. The old man gets out and stoops to pick up the baby girl, showing her the
tenderness her parents were unable to. He lowers her into the toy box coffin gently,
nails its lid down and places it in an empty spot, the first of tonight's 'done' pile. He
then returns to the cab to continue his grisly round.
Unseen pink fairies follow the truck like a river of light flowing, twisting and turning
in mid-air. At each stop a few drops come away to where the baby lay and whistle.
Whistle to distract the spirits that would otherwise follow the unfortunate child for
all times. They know she has suffered too much already, or perhaps not enough.
Certainly nothing to warrant any more disturbance.
Every night they gather and fly along the truck's path to ease the passage of the still
stirring spirits. Crying at the eternal horror of all they see. At the senselessness of
this practice. Especially when, outside the city, millions are killed by bayonet and
gun.
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