“We continued marching on…”The dessert stones are crumbling beneath,
leaving particles of dust
on the red and itchy surface of my foot,
covered tightly with that foreign leather boot.
Our shirts are soaked in sweat,
dumb rifles wrecking our shoulders,
swinging with each step –
black pendulum of modern doom.
We continued marching on,
morphed into a machine
like a unit made of solid metal,
but I was a broken pedal
on this bicycle of hope or terror,
depending on whom you’d ask.
They have noticed that, perhaps,
or maybe just filling up the gaps,
as I get a notice that I will be joining
a cast of kitchen rats – a problematic bunch.
No more marching,
mostly cutting vegetables and meat
and no more weapons
swinging on the shoulders,
only recipes and kitchen heat.
Fate has bribed me with the food,
saving me from mental gloom
that could have followed me
at nights, but now
I get no worry
when phantom flies
switching off the lights.
Poetry by Vladimir Fischer
Thank you very much for any help!