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.