In his childhood memories, bursts of laughter echo

familiar faces flush with excitement,

playing those silly war games.



Running to hide from the enemy, armed and dangerous

with mudballs and water pistols.

On two legs.

Then at dusk, he darts from tree to tree,

until homebase is reached,

where warm baths and delicious food awaits.



Drafted.

His security banished, slipping through fingers like sand,

without a trace.

His hunger for knowledge about this war he fights

gnaws at him endlessly.



Out in the rainy, raw trenches, shooting with eyes squinted,

he traces his bullet in the air plunging deep into a friend's chest.

Dodging through the deadly hills, he comes upon the wounded soul.

Watching as a dirty tear streams down his face,

the wounded man makes an attempt to rise,

like awakening from a deep sleep,

but relentlessly his head jerks against the ground

and his mud corroded gun

with real bullets

slips out of touch.



Sneaking away from the barriers,

shadows of death in each step,

the smell of blood permeates his nostrils.

Suddenly, an inexpressible pain paralyzes his lower limbs

leaving him limp on the earth.

In a pool of crimson, muscles strain to drag himself away

into a trench where he helplessly screeches for help.



The war shows sorrow.

The war reflects pain.

The war pleads for martyrdom.

The war wins nothing.