when you’re supposed to kill, the bare hands become holder for weapons with two directions
with them you dig in the ground like some shovels to pull out your own life from the coffin

today, tomorrow, yesterday – there are no more; it’s just you that exists for a blind cause that you’ve gripped
in cramps as long as a finger, in the eyes that are panicked when seeing shadows without support

through the lungs buried in gunpowder you only breathe leaves of death, twisted like in a cigar
from which you smoke not wanting to – your lips stung, your palms are clenching on the cold butt touching passionately the bullet

the child that stood squatted within your body, today is just the rusty beast that spits fire without blinking, without sweats
the man you want to become is just a delusion

***

in the desert called war remain only dust threads, the sepia looks and scythe tracks