In the evening the children sit
on the couch and I show them

how I, as a young man
liberated the city, with steel wire

around the necks of the men
who had confessed, including

my girl's father. Pull tight
until the head nods yes

Clean work, not a drop of blood
We copied it from a movie

which was not as real as doing it ourselves
and driving over people three times

or keeping word with a club
when someone doesn't want

to pay for his safety
Like the children I am proud

of it, but in bed I think
that not those thousand were wrong

but me, but why? Why
do the curtains always move

Why are there dead eyes staring
at me and what is written

behind them, indelibly
in heaven?