The war ended the moment the country
forget the battlefield,
soil soaked in blood.
When it forgets
who kicked life,
and who missed the last target.
Who’s on the right,
and who is on the opposite side?
The only difference is in the uniform,
which at the end
carried the same color,
color of blood.
Soldiers who are at war
consider it a rocking chair,
obligation like an attendance
like a noose around your neck.
Unspoken words of prayer
gurgling in the throat,
they tighten the noose more and more.
And non-belonging becomes
when you finish on the battlefield.
The battlefield will change its roots again.
But it will not change history.
Not poor children,
nor their parents,
and not obliged.
The stench of rot will replace the scent of flowers,
but the feeling of not belonging will remain,
on the same
It will breathe forever,
with satisfied Death in one sigh.
Skipping human remains,
trampling over them,
not to swallow the mud of the dead
and spit out lives,
as the projectile leaves the shell casing.
Take a shovel and heavy earth, throw them over my face.
Fill my bones with the remnants of dry land
and bury in them all words of praise.
“You did well in the place you stumbled.”
My cold body covered with warm blood,
light my suit
and from an alloy of my ranks and emblems
make the last shot,
which will be a memory of life.
And I will always feel it
weight of earth and cargo,
while memories and mistakes like
worm parasites compete
which will inhibit sooner
the remnants of my existence
and make out of me
just another one