WAR’S SON

I am not an almond,

Nor an orange,

I am something very pale,

So, I always bow down in the evening,

And turn to ash.

I am the son of war.

My heart is a barren desert,

And my memory is kneaded with its cruelty.

My life is postponed,

And I know nothing of love and beauty.

I know nothing but death and smoke.