Road to Zagreb

They cut out his eyes

With a dessert Spoon

Then scalped him

And his son, Mirko.

They took his coffee set

The little pot, burnt on its base,

The tiny cups and the tie pin,

Pure gold from Nana Neda’s box.

They left him barely alive

But mercifully killed the child.

The were away slower than

Their arrival.

The doorbell was impotent as

The fake general

Who ordered this joyful

Celebration of Easter.

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