Sonnet 8 (200 Sonnet's Of The Soldier) Poem by Leom Kolmnela

Nobody in this world can say even with laughter
that there is something more precious than a mother.

If someone ever listened even once
as her poor soul burned from yearning
quickly will dissipate this life of essence
with the cliffs and mountains aging.

I too have a mother like yours
a rustic gentlewoman, humble and sweet.
I feel I am collapsing by winds of wars
as if a traitorous rifle snatches my heartbeat.

Frigid I feel as I awake like stone with no scope,
since I allowed it lately each morning.
A nightmare shattering any ray of hope
I watched while on fields as wheat sprouting.

And a sharp scythe mercilessly cuts me away,
tormenting my suffering soul night and day.