You hear them. You hear the dead calling out for vengeance. You don't see them, as such, but there are reflections in windows of people that aren't there. There are reflections in lakes and rivers where they were drowned. There are songs in the wind. There are shapes in the meadows where their broken bodies lie forgotten, for a split second trees growing over their corpses mould their bark into screaming mouths. Pavements built over the sites of their martyrdom ripple like water. The bells in churches resonate, not ring, with the cries from their spirits.
No one knows what they saw and what they heard. But everyone saw and heard it.
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