The Prayer of a Weary Soldier

I’m tired of shooting and of that nauseating stench
That I created with a mixture made only of blood and sulfur
But I am not an alchemist
I’m just a soldier
I protect the living by killing other living beings.
It is they, who tell me
Who is good and who is bad,
Who has to live and who to die.
Next to me
Sits a crying child
Hug my rifle
I just killed his father and now mine too, eyes cry.

My dirty hands, they tremble.
And my lips pray:
My God, what have I done?
Who have I become?
Give me strength, please,
To become your gardener
I would turn any bomb, in colorful flower pots

I’d plant fruit trees,
Inside those chasms
Along the roads,
I would build nests, in those big holes
On the facades of the buildings
So that every bird, tired of travel
Would find accommodation, welcoming.
I would build peace,
One flower a day.

 Emanuele Cilenti