War Zone

meet you her, my wishes,

bespeak her to my blisses,

and be ye called my absent kisses

(R. Crashaw)

I remember, yes, 21, the age of the end of all dreams. I wasn’t there. Had the first love of my life; one of those ones that can shake your bones. But I was fighting then, I wasn’t there. I felt it though, and I didn’t care about the imperial tanks. Didn’t you see me? I was the one with the stones flying out of my hands; I was the one showing you the stones flying out of our hands.

Now it’s all over, they say. Who’ll get us our beaten hands back? Who’ll stand for the land where we made so much love? There are bullets over the tomb of the child that was never born.

And, of course, nothing happened, I wasn’t there. Never kissed you. We didn’t even make love. You should be married by now. Of course is not about the land. Might be your brother in law, or my cousin...

And love’s there, anyway. Since I’m not there, I’d better speak for myself. Tell me, is it the same? Were you there? Are you here, without the love-marked places, family-marked places, the graveyards? My healed-beaten hands? Your abandoned cozy heart? They say it’s over, where are you? You might think I’ve been fighting in some strange lands, and maybe I’ve been, but I wish there was something like the telephone in future ages.

yes, i remember. i was not there