THE LAST OF THE SOLDIERS

There you are, giving a silent sermon over a heap

of the dead and move on, just like when you ask the grocer

for something, and move on. And so goes Saturday running

tired till Thursday, it tries in vain to believe the news,

like his destroyed home, wanting to flee from its clothes

it runs around in circles from afternoon to evening like

the hands of a clock, wishing everything would stop, don't

take me to the next day, O war, what am I supposed to do

the morning of another day that shows up without friends?

Yet it finds nothing to signal the end of war except

the slight chance: for the last tank to rust,

or the last of the soldiers to die.

Nasser Rabah

March 7, 2024