Here I am, wandering in a village
The skin of which still bears the scars of rage.
Wherever I go, death has left its trail,
I can’t do anything but wail and rail.
Here’s a ball made of old rags which the boys
Used to play with, how deafening the noise.
The deserted playing ground still echo
Their laughter before they were forced to go.
The old, broken and forsaken straw stools
Still reiterated the story of those fools.
Here’s a fireplace surprisingly hot
On top of which there’s a boiling tea-pot.
The baby was snatched before being fed,
His full bottle’s lying nearby dead.
The rocking cradle is turned upside down,
With the baby’s stuff and a paper crown.
Near the clayey oven some loaves of bread
Have been tossed away out of fear and dread.
Inside a stiffling room on a table
There’s an oily and coverless fable.
The reader , a child perhaps, stopped reading
Where the dragon has got the lamb bleeding.
Approaching steps prove that I’m not alone,
Then a warning, “ it’s a military zone.”
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