Anonymous, my poem

[Bassim]

Please would you take a look at my poem, "Anonymous" and correct my mistakes.

Anonymous

You have become a short news article,
an obituary notice,
a few sentences pronounced by the PM and the opposition leader
in Parliament the following day,
an occasional topic of conversation between glasses of expensive wine.

Only yesterday, they ignored you like the air.
They were not interested in your copious sweating, dirt, thirst, fears and hopes.
Your destination was an abstract thought in their finest minds.
They were used to subtle things: arts, literature, poetry, fashion and exotic drinks.
Blood made them cringe.

I can only speculate about where your mind had carried you.
How many days until the nightmare is over?
What to buy to your girlfriend?
What a present to send for your father’s birthday?
How to name your unborn child?

Everything was burning on that day.
The sand, crunching and crumbling under your boots, feet, lungs, mouth, helmet, gun.
You were blissfully unaware of what another man had been doing the previous day.
Your fellow human being,
who could have been your friend, in another time, under different circumstances.
I do not dare to think about the moment when the metal parts tore your body apart,
When you and pain became inseparable, and were looking each other in the eye.

The flag draping your casket, cannons firing salute, and trumpet playing a sad melody
were just a facade – a propaganda stunt for the masses.
What is sacred is your mother coming relentlessly,
cleaning your grave, putting some flowers under your name,
and singing lullabies for you.

 

[Tarheel]

OK

Anonymous

You have become a short news article,
an obituary notice,
a few sentences pronounced by the PM and the opposition leader
in Parliament the following day,
an occasional topic of conversation between glasses of expensive wine.

Only yesterday, they ignored you like the air.
They were not interested in your copious sweating, dirt, thirst, fears and hopes. (I don't have any suggestions.)
Your destination was an abstract thought in their finest minds.
They were used to subtle things: art, literature, poetry, fashion and exotic drinks.
Blood made them cringe.

I can only speculate about where your mind had carried you.
How many days until the nightmare is over?
What to buy for your girlfriend?
What present to send to your father for his birthday?
What to name your unborn child?

Everything was burning on that day,
The sand crunching under your boots.
You were blissfully unaware of what another man had been doing the previous day.
Your fellow human being,
who could have been your friend, in another time, under different circumstances.
I do not dare to think about the moment when the shrapnel tore your body apart,
When you and pain became inseparable, and were looking each other in the eye.

The flag draping your casket, cannons firing a salute, and trumpets playing a sad melody
were just a facade – a propaganda stunt for the masses.
What is sacred is your mother coming regularly,
cleaning your grave, putting some flowers under your name,
and singing lullabies for you.

I've got to go.

:up: