Get up brother, the war is over. They have taken your tank to the smelter but your rifle still lies on the mountain. At last, the sands have erased your courage and farmers now plant leaves where you fell. The trees you planted have died. The enemy have taken the mountain that you vowed you would never abandon. From the ice-covered summits, they’ve lowered your banner, which was raised until your downfall. They’ve plundered your uniform and your plunder. And no matter how dead you were, they kept riddling your corpse with bullets. Though the worms crawled out of your eyes - and your large heart - they still couldn’t believe that you were dead. You had been their worst nightmare. Get up my brother, the war is over (…) My mother is still in bed. I spoke with her of your height and your strong arms. How delighted she was when they couldn’t find any shoes that would fit you. She asked me how you were sleeping and I was filled with sorrow to tell her that you hadn’t slept for seven years. That a shell from an enormous gun shattered your ribs, and stripped you of your youth. So I let the sun set upon your name and dreams, put to rest the settled dust that you have become. Between your life, your death, there is a distance of six children.
Heartbreaking
