They are more than mournable bodies whether disappeared or reinvented in a pimp’s image, no less an image of God, in case you thought otherwise.
Children of blood and bone, certainly; but beyond the skin they are or were in, they breathe fire and thread sinew. Sometimes, dripping it between the grains of sand they are buried in.
They carry their own heartbeats and that of another generation, they sing unto themselves and sisters far into the beyond that is beyond.
Birthing while chained, birthing while buried in that copse over there. They move into the heart of the root and are blown through the breeze, treed tendrils across the crown.
You thought they were drowned, too. The lake and sea may have accepted their bodies but they’ve thrown back the soul bathed in the clarity of the Mother.
Their blood and bone has sown a different kind of power. It is incorruptible. It is freedom.
You did not bury them. You’ve rebirthed them.
And unleashed their fury.