To war!

Mambru went to war.
To war!
A war far from home.
With words that got stuck to the roof of the mouth.
Spitting just the essential ones.
A war with hundreds of battles.
Where the last words of each one
started the first paragraph of the next one.
A spiral war.
Where each little advance
meant an extraordinary journey.

Mambru went to war.
The first step on the way
was the las step on the way.
This way he did it:
knowing his little footstep
erased a bit of his shadow.

The mother?
Cried or was dead.

On the front,
men are minimum
like "ones" on the midday sun.
Childre are...
Children have no shadow.

Days and nights follow ones anothers
as in a chain of chiaroscuro.
As if an only day with disconnections.
He doesn't grow up.
He stays prisoner of his fossil childhood.
A fistful of bones.

The mother?
Cries or is dead.

When war ends,
as well as his shadow,
he will have lost several teeth,
huge bits of his soul
and all his self-respect.
He will have vanished under his kit bag.
Under the weight of his conscience.
He won't be able to find the sweet breadcrums
to go back home.
He will be lost in the spiral labirynth
he helped to build.
Nobody neither from inside nor from outside
will make a kind hand gesture.
Ones will want to forget.
Other ones won't remember.
He will not exist.

The mother?
Will cry or have died.

Mambru went to war.
He won't come back.

The White Queen

The White Queen sees it all from the hill.
She tastes in small sips the oxygen of the day,
wondering how bitter will be the next gulp.
If there will be a next one...

She gazes at the battlefield
still pretending to be a masked ball.
The little pawns wearing as for a party.
Dancing and laughing.
As it would last!
As if that was the real world.
Real!

The Queen thoughtfully touches her crown,
licking the last sip bitterness.
She knows them all.
By their names.
The current ones and all the others.
She knows how many pairs of boots have them used
and how many dancing shoes.
She has looked them all in the eyes
and seen them all die a little.

An Odd Pawn goes up the hill.
It is not from this game.
From no game.
It was born for a whim.
A whim of something free.
But it is a pawn...
Without wings.
If it just got wings!
No boot is good for its feet.
And at the balls it can only
follow with its fingers the rhythm of the music.
Follow with its eyes the rhythm of the feet.

The Pawn greets her.
With a nod of its head.

The Queen offers him the ball.
With a wave of his hand.

The Pawn refuses.
With its head.
With its feet.
Barefoot.
The Queen nods.

Oxygen becomes more and more bitter.
More scarce.
Nothing.

The White Queen becomes more and more white.
More incorporeal.
Nothing.

The Odd Pawn sees it all from the hill.

A trapped angel

Some moments exist
when reality branches off
in a way you can choose
between going on your way
other turning around.

At the very same instant
in the same way
it takes two different directions,
visible one from the other,
as in a mirror.

Yesterday and today
seem separated barely by a step.

But anyway it's not that easy...

I've seen an angel trapped in the mirror at the other side.
He jumped and waved his arms around.
"I'm here!"

An angel.
Trapped.
In the mirror.
At the other side.