A lot of young men with a lot of guns
The cement floor is cold; and
still is; for the blood has dried.
The small pools crust along the ground;
with prints of military boots intact.
Here, in the garden road,
along this floor
we grow anger
we grow love, too; and
many a heart; sore.
I walk along the garden road; the road watered
with waters red; their blood
seems a river that cuts cement and stone.
Two fell there, now; three under my feet; and
in the distance; four
And resting here, in peaceful sleep
I find some more.
It has been long since their roar; like them
I crouch down beside him
His eyes frighten me
I see in them my own leaving; from
this tiny world; I continue my search
for it is not him.
The boy along the garden road
The boy with the tranquil face,
the military outfit that does not fit,
the hole through the heart, the half-loaded gun
he is not my son.