Bad News on a Scrap of Newspaper by Roque Dalton Nowadays when my friends die only their names die. How can I hope, down in this rotten hole, to take in more than the newsprint, the sheen of delicate black letters, arrows deep into personal memories? Only those who live outside the prisons can honor the corpses, wash off the grief for their dead ones with embraces, scratch up the grave with fingernail and tears. Not those of us in jail: we just whistle to let the sound play down the news.