War Poem by Mahyar Goodarzi

My pen is not writing 'war'
'War' does not belong to my poem
I must get rid of this idle pen
It doesn't work in the cold war again

While the bullet of word may crack the hearts
My hometown pronounces harsh words of bombs
But my scant words
Such as these ruined houses
Carry bloodshed on their squalid-walls
(The poem is bleeding and getting dirt
The poem is shouting a timeless wrath)

Danger is the condition here
And the red sirens are exploding the night
Sleepy corpses hate beams of light
Let's cover all the windows anywhere
To hide them from enemy's wild bats

No one can lean on a bloody wall
Cos it may be a standing tomb
Stars don't have reliable room
They might be spies after all
They may come to explode the moon, the last hope

Nights are as hatred as days here
The common nightmare of the kids is death fiend
Death tastes them to the bitter end
Every night may be the last night to appear
And minds silently murmur:
Whose mother may scream tonight?

What's in graves?
Some bones
Or a skull
Or dried out blood
Sweeper sweeps ashes of dearests every morning

We lack the air
But piles of news
Of little hearts
Of tight graves
Of a bleeding house in our chests
Of bloody dolls
Of little skulls' explosions on childish dreamful pillows
Of a young man in a dark night
Who was afraid and searching a rill
To find his other hand

I saw a frightened kid
Who was running the last steps without any head
And a father who came back
To return the head
He had an empty chest
We had an empty chest
Shivering patiently
Burning inside out