An Unknown Soldier
A Cry of Love for Pointless Deaths of Our Times
Bombs bursting in air
have gone quiet—
as if giving way to sunrise,
as if making space
for the world to go on.
I’m holding the hand of a young soldier
whose name I don’t know,
but he’s saying something.
I lean closer—
“I’m so sorry. Slava Ukraini!”
rises from his barely moving lips.
With that, he goes—
an unknown soldier
whose last words
would’ve been considered a treason
in the country he used to serve.
I kiss his forehead
and pray for his soul
to go to heaven—
just as it is now,
glowing golden orange,
filled with the sound of silence,
welcoming a hero
with no name.
I think of my own son.
How do angels call him, I wonder?
Do they know his name?
Do they know more than it said
on a short notice:
“Lost without trace”?
Has he been found there, in heaven?
Could I send a word with this boy?
Maybe even a kiss on the forehead?
Could I tell him that sun still rises,
and stars tell tales
of the birth of the Savior?
Could I tell him:
“You didn’t die for nothing!”
No—you didn’t die for nothing!
And I will always remember your name.
I close his eyes
and let go of his hand.
Now angels take over,
so I can stay here—
loving like heaven
on a crying land.
I wrote this poem initially for competition. And then I re-wrote it with no other goal in mind than feeling.
I was there with this soldier. I saw that sunrise. I thought of my son. Even though I have no children and I live in Bali, where I enjoy the privilege of safety, the privilege to be able to write poetry of the pain I can only feel as a cry for humanity, not real loss, grief and life threat in my physical life.
I am privileged. I ache. I write.
I feel sorry, that’s all I can do.
But then again, if all of us, poets, artists, creatives, do that, I do believe, it creates change. I do believe our voices will be heard. And our art can touch hearts. Can be there, where people feel godforsaken.
So let’s create! Let’s be the ones who don’t forget and turn their eyes and hearts away.
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