How did I manage to make it?
How did I somehow survive?
I look at the others who perished,
And I ask myself, 'Why? '
Why was I so fortunate?
Why not me instead of them?
I often see their faces,
A silent roll call of our dead.
Nighttime is the hardest,
For my slumber is less than kind.
And carrying around these questions,
Weighs heavily on my mind.
Sleep comes hard, but when I sleep,
I always dream in red.
And lying there in the fields,
Are the scattered bodies of my friends.
When I walk by any garden,
All the flowers seem to wilt,
As if they are being crushed
By the weight of all my guilt.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Richard, a very moving piece.10/10 Regards, Ian