His open eyes, one catching the sun,
shining towards me – presumably
they still function optically:
recording, unmoved, unmoving, my presence;
this dead soldier, sodden in the ditch,
half his body peaceful, as if
welcoming his death; the other half
unmentionable; animals must eat;
his eyes recording my presence, yet
the brain now with no need
to question whether I’m the enemy; or friend;
the medic; the man who’s just shot him several times
at close range, standing over; or
the man he shot just now;
come to greet him as his newest friend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Everything about this poem is perfect... except where it resides now. It should be in an Anthology, The Best British Poems of 2008, along with the other living greats.