We found the old man, swinging from a rope;

It seems he couldn’t take it anymore.

It seems he had outlived his memories;

He’d had two sons, both victims of the war.

 

This is reality: young lives are snatched

And parents, seeking solace, see no point

In playing games alone in this grim light,

When others seek new martyrs to anoint.

 

It’s what invaders deal in every day:

A dose of tragedy and then despair.

The population thins, and public space

Gives off the emptiness of open air;

 

And there’s a silence in the unclaimed house,

With ornaments unmoved and time to spare.