The Soldier And The Deadlock Poem by Agatha Eliza

Heal your wounds by not being silent
do not clean the powdery blood
that stained your face,
and do not interrupt the music
of the bullets falling in those
fragile, forever trembling palms,
all the winters you spent away from home.


Oh! Do not shake the dirt
off your old, ragged and sweated uniform
hiding the tears you've shed
on the beginning of the disaster,
the beginning of the war..
This bleeding carcass may be your only
friend. Your hope. Your tomb. Your number.


Nail your country's flag
to the last remaining wall of the world..
a pile of rusty guns and rubble
chanting a dirge instead of an hymn
while mourning your comrades,
and the days when peace could be bought
only with tanks and soldiers
invading the borders!
Your guilt follows you like a shadow,
forever attached to your hands
like a bouquet of rotten black flowers
on the chest of a dead man.