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on war


Now that you are voice, but your soul is black, between the cold earth and the swamp the eco is just a flutter in the thunder of battle, the sharp sound startles the turtle-doves dozing on their beds of dew, while a light fog outlines the edges and attenuates certainties.

The Sun, pallid and uncertain, reveals the cliffs, with big branches tattooed on them, and the heavy wool collar sinking into the ground where the snow appears.

 Those eyes lost on the horizon, cry out bravery, and fear and wonder; awakenings over steaming cups giving off the scent of coffee, that still touches me, even though it was yesterday. The heavy helmet marks the forehead, among thoughts of an unworthy mother, of the sacrifice of her astonished children, that assault the conscience and consume the ideas.

In the madness taking place all around, I dream of home, under a serene look on a reassuring face. But suddenly there is the roaring of mouths of fire, and the thought vanishes in the form of the face next to mine.

I have to do it and I fire towards that face, towards that hostile man with the eyes full of questions I am unable to answer, and he falls, on his legs, with the tag bearing my name hanging on his stained breast.