Tune and Cemetery

They’re sitting on benches by the Taloye Lake— Guitar slung loose, half a cigarette burning, Laughter low and generous. You wouldn’t know what year it is. Not from the way the notes drift upward, Not from the warmth in their voices. You walk through the cemetery as they play. It’s spring, maybe. The grass is soft and unbothered. Names from the old times drift past your feet Like old thoughts you forgot you once had. One voice cuts through—sharp, political. But no one flinches. They argue like it’s a sport, Like the stakes aren’t exile Or silence Or vanishing. The girl on the end tunes the guitar again, As if nothing’s at risk. As if you are all allowed to stay. You keep walking. You want to ask if they know This is where they bury memory. But they just nod at you, Calm, gentle, as usual Like you’ve always been here. Like the border never mattered.