Garden Of War Poem by Magdalena Biela
Garden Of War
The pain in their eyes,
still fresh, bleeding.
I know
their sleepless nights,
trying to put together
the missing pieces
of this puzzle called life.
A Poet who writes
in the garden
and then must write
in the war,
may loose the silence
of his soul,
fear and hope could melt
into same one feeling,
death becomes a word
to describe the every minute
he is still alive
not knowing what comes next,
pain becomes a scream,
a prayer to heavens
to make an end,
the horror becomes
the everyday image to feel.
A poet who writes
first in the war
and after,
he is blessed
to write in the garden
will contemplate
cheating death,
or death as a friend
who allowed him more time
to write.
He sees the trees
as his dead friends
without a coffin,
the sky is empty
without the bombing planes,
the silence is deafening,
the birds appear useless
compared to the song
of shooting guns.
Between 'must' and 'blessed'
the mutilation of one's soul,
has an increased sense
of seeing life and death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 3:41:07 PM # 1.0.0.1119
I thought of the line from MACBETH about the killing of children in a merciless war: DID HEAVEN LOOK ON AND NOT TAKE THEIR PART? Unfortunately, yes. The only help available to save innocent people will come from other innocent people who provide the shelter in Finland you talked about in your prose comment. This is a powerful poem that makes the suffering unbearable. You prove yourself to be the cosmopolitan in your self-description. The linking of such opposites as GARDEN and BATTLEFIELD is especially eloquent. Tje war photographer Don McCullin spoke at a local college after photographing warfare in Nigeria in the 1970s. He said to the college audience, WHAT GOOD ARE BEAUTIFUL PICTURES IF THEY SHOW A 12-YEAR-OLD BOY WHOSE LEGS WERE BLOWN OFF BY A MINE? He was questioning the very foundations of his art. uncertain if it could make a difference in the lives of victims. But what better role for art than to arouse people, encourage them to help the innocent. Your poem fulfills that role of arr admirably.