Five years from now, or even four, they'll ask how come that mound of grass, that statue looking mean, or sad -- not sure. Who died? Lots of folk, I guess. Used to be we saw an evil going round, people treating people mean, no manners left, no grace, no joy. Some said no love. Tall tales -- we learned that later. It had to stop before the world turned inside out, when lemons drown the tea. Lies whacked our skins like drums. That day we said the hell with it, no caution's babies, none of us; no questions asked, marched up the hill -- no flag, but something fluttered in the wind and died -- and started shooting.
A. Y. Tanaka