Dove of peace

In the bosom of poetry

On a land that, instead of soil,

It smells like gunpowder.

After the rain of wishes

I seek the shelter of your hands.

Oh, boundless dove!

Our tired earth

He can’t stand the boots anymore.

***

War

The sun is shining.

That our work and burden

It’s clotted as always!

And how strange it is that children become birds.

They say: The truth is bitter.

They say: We had no choice.

News agencies are weaving again.

Grown-ups decide.

Little people die.

And blood is the only poetry that flows.

And these wounds cannot be healed.

***

Survivor

The war is over.

Me, but

We are still alone.

I’m still empty.

I still have pain.

And I’m still afraid.

Like an apartment that

He has eaten a missile!