A Letter Poem by Sexaginta Prista

“My dear love,
You have not written me a while,
it’s been almost a year,
but I always see your smile
and often think of you my dear.
You have no time for a letter
and I fully understand,
but imagine you’ll feel better
when having mine in hand.
We have a nice weather,
the spring is almost here,
would have been nicer to be together,
our son, you and me, my dear.
You know, he started to walk,
he’ll make you proud
and also trying to talk,
he is or sleeping or loud.
You have not seen him,
he got your look,
he is like a dream
and like an open book.
But let me not bore you.
You have your war,
do what you must do,
for us, worry no more.
Goodbye my love,
we both are kissing you a lot,
praying for best, leaving you
in the hands of God.”

There was a remote post
up in the mountain,
a few soldiers’ guarding it,
always on their tows
for the stray bullet.
A bomb explosion,
left all dead,
among them a young man
with a letter in the hand:
frozen smile on a cold face,
wide open eyes,
maybe with a happy thought
before his demise.
Then there was the silence,
all what left was buried,
all souls were gone
but the wondering spirits.