The Garden Of War

The Garden Of War short poem

Photo by mirasview

The pain in their eyes,
still fresh, bleeding.
I know
their sleepless nights,
trying to put together
the missing pieces
of this puzzle called life.
A Poet who writes
in the garden
and then must write
in the war,
may lose the silence
of his soul,
fear and hope could melt
into same one feeling,
death becomes a word
to describe the every minute
he is still alive
not knowing what comes next,
pain becomes a scream,
a prayer to heavens
to make an end,
the horror becomes
the everyday image to feel.
A poet who writes
first in the war
and after,
he is blessed
to write in the garden
will contemplate
cheating death,
or death as a friend
who allowed him more time
to write.
He sees the trees
as his dead friends
without a coffin,
the sky is empty
without the bombing planes,
the silence is deafening,
the birds appear useless
compared to the song
of shooting guns.
Between ‘must’ and ‘blessed’
the mutilation of one’s soul,
has an increased sense
of seeing life and death.

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I am a citizen of this wonderful world. I live in the language of every country, in the poetry of every language. I was born once with the word. I dream your dreams, I think your thoughts, I feel your fear, pain, joy, sorrow, doubt, serenity. I exist because you create me. Keep me alive in your poems and we shall live happily ever after.Maria Magdalena Biela
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