Hey, I am Christina. I am from Greece and I am very proud of my origin. The Greek language is the perfect language for poems with deep-meaning and abstract beauty. I love when using words together that don't, actually, bond and I adore symbolism.

Message to Readers

Actually, this piece of writing was originally written in Greek. So, I translated it, and due to the fact that English is not my mother-language, I am not sure if I used some words incorrectly, or whether there are any syntax mistakes. So, if you would like to take a look and share any advice, I would be really happy. Thank you.

The Requiem of a Soldier

April 17, 2016

France, Ypres Salient, 8th November 1917

The moon seems like a vent on the dark dress of the night, caused by the cigar of a careless man.

I did not forget you. Among all the things that are forgotten, you are the one that I mostly do not want to wipe off my memory. I do not have either a piece of paper or a pen to write to you, so I am writing down on the dirt of the earth with my finger. I only wish that the wind sends my words to you.

The day has transformed into the moon, in order to not be separated by the sky. It has become a window for the thousands of souls, that have unjustly closed their eyes, to travel... saunter in the immense chaos, in order to find their atonement. Because far away from the life that fate gave us to live, would we ever find redemption.

In my mind, images of despair have been permanently printed. They rape me. 
James, Thomas, Frank... All of them are gone. I was beside all three of them when they took their last breath. Did you know that?

I remember looking at James, while he was lying on the ground.  The black blood had enfolded him. He was choking. Sounds of death were coming out of him, while he had his arm extended towards me. He was howling "Help" within silence.The bullet had ripped his neck and, the blood was surging out of his veins. I wanted to turn around and look away, but my eyes were fixed into his... the most impassive eyes that, yet, were indicating the whole truth.

I couldn't even cry. Soldiers do not have time to mourn, anyway... 
But, there should be a reasonable reason for the fact that I am alive but they aren't, right? Please, tell me, yes, otherwise everything was a lie formed into pointless hopes and expired promises. I am haunted.

Now, I am sitting in a trench, smoking a wet cigarette. I am sucking  the mold and the dampness, while the smoke is sauteing my lungs. The cold, like a knife, is cutting my legs and arms. I am trying to remember you, but each spit is a dullness in my head.

I am wandering alone, and I am whispering words of despair. My mind tries to hear any sound, apart from the deafening fuss of silence, but I am alone. I can't even speak aloud because of the hunger.

Nothing is left. They took you from me and I lost my past. They took myself from me and I lost my future. Eventually, only my memories are left, but they tend to get thrown on the Kaiadas... the mountain from which Spartans used to throw the weak children. Now it has turned to the place where memories are lost in oblivion.

Suddenly, I am starting to hear something. It is like I woke up from an eternal torpidity and I am driven to the sound of the most angelic harmonica. For a moment, I forget the decay and the destruction of the war. But, soon I get off the trench and I am looking again at the vast, ill-treated earth. My senses had deluded me. Dead bodies everywhere... Why can I still hear the music of the harmonica? The only thing I see is masses of dead soldiers. Here, everyone seems like a tumult, like the autumn leaves that fall on the ground and then, they get washed out. They loose their color and then, they fade, like they never existed.

The harmonica stopped playing. Looking at the plain white horizon, I made out a blur. It was gradually becoming the form of a man. I kneeled down. I couldn't stand my weight any longer. My eyes hurt because of the dryness. When I looked on the dirt, I saw a dapple. Then, there were thousands. The Earth mourns... The drippings of the rain feel like they baptize me for a second time. They wash away my sins. 

Then, I remember you, my  beloved sister. You had fought with our farther to let me join the soldiers at the lines. Now, I am laughing at the memory.  I begin yelling, screaming, howling, because I'm sick of being silent for years. 

"Come", I heard the voice of my angel. I clutched my eyes until they hurt, to try and forget the images of bloody flesh. 
When I opened them, in front of me, there was an atrophic hand extended towards me. It seemed like it had sensed the warm blood of the thorn, it had become a tool for killing and now, it wanted to find another hand to hold. In the pocket, beside the hand, there was a stained harmonica. It was beautiful, full of dirt, scratches and dried drops of blood. My eyes looked up at the face of the soldier with the harmonica. He was sickly, covered with mud and blood.

After a while, I extended my hand to hold my angel. Whether he is a soldier of the Allies or the Central Powers, I do not know. All I know is that we stand all alone, full of wounds and tears. Moments of our lives are unfolding in front of us. You remember the saltiness of the sea, sister? When I and James scared you, by talking about monsters existing underneath the surface? Now we should be afraid of the land, for existing monsters...

I and the soldier stand there, leaning on each other without shackles, without dreams, without shame, without love.
Because, life is love and love is you. And you.. well, I've lost you.

When we did lower our heads, the puddles were reflecting the light of the sun. They had become mirrors of the sun-rays, like ponds of gold. Gold, among decay and spoilage... Sparkling ponds of gold and then: Serenity. After a long, long time... Serenity. 


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  • April 17, 2016 - 11:46am (Now Viewing)

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