Maybe I saw the faces
of a thousand soldiers
while they prepared for war
and some had grim determination, even dedication
to get ready, cleaning rifles, checking
what we carried along
and some acted as if they didn’t care,
others were clowning around
making funny faces
and then there was me
and till today I wonder what
other soldiers saw
when they looked at me
or was the lines already chiselled in
that killing leaves on the soul
or were my eyes just bare and blank
or were they raging with inner fire?
Who will ever know?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem