He stands in the corner, watching me:
His eyes are red like blood
And he bears no name, rank, or identity—
His skin is faded pale
As if he has been drained of all soul.
The white square upon his breast
(A surrogate for where once laid a heart)
Is the last innocent part of him—
His body smeared with blood and dirt.
When he was inevitably pierced with holes,
His body was fed to the worms
To be remembered no more.
Now, even he doesn't know his true self,
And his eyes are bloodshot red
To match the life that's left
And reflect the anger underneath his ruined frame.
For now, I watch him back
To remind him that I will always believe him:
Though even I could not tell him
Who he once was.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It's important to remember these people. Well said.