“I breed pigs - the man says to me -
I have just come back home to rest.
I’ll start shooting again later”-
“I didn’t hear anything
- the woman candidly confesses, -
I take so many sleeping pills!
In spite of the bombing I have just woken up! ”.
I look out of the window.
There is what is left
of a soldier in a farmyard:
a foot, a sock… a cut-off leg…
a sockless foot, the chest…
and a few metres farther, under a tree,
beside a worm-eaten apple,
the split head full of flies.
“I'll go grooming the pigs
– the man says to me
with a polite, kind smile, -
then, after sleeping and eating,
I’ll immediately start shooting again
at those bastards living on the other side of the river”.
“I'll go back sleeping
- the woman says to me in a graceful way. -
But, if you wish to stay…
make yourself at home”.
I shake my head.
This is not my home.