Morten Langeland - ******

They come in hordes, headed for something. Through the streets, squares, gardens. Across the roads. Stop, up a tree to see, then under the fence, forward. The boundary to man is trash, and the rest stops, by barracks and outposts. Between the savannah and civilisation, along the ditches, the landfills. They live close. Disrespectfully, like language.