I have decided to split my body into two,
one side is dead and the other is alive;
the dead have peace on every side,
the living has war on every side.
Though sometimes I’m dead on one part,
the other side has war to return to life.
How uncanny that the dead side has eyes
and can see the things the living cannot?
How curious that the dead carry everything,
including the weight of the living on its shoulders?
There’s always a blade of rose hanging from the sky,
like a dagger from God to slaughter the guilty,
each time I see the world through the eyes of the dead;
but the eyes of the living see war-torn paths,
bombed cities, landscapes, demolished homes,
schools and churches reduced to ashes,
and piles of rubble on every side of the road.
See how bodies pile high in the river,
and who knows if the killing is for the self.
What is my fate after suffering from such a calamity,
that my peace is the war that I confront every day,
and the battle rages between I, me, and myself,
each adversary arrives with their blazing weapons?
What is my courage and grace to walk on thorns,
step on scorpions, snakes and bumble bees,
but that I have the audacity of death to do the undoable,
and the fervency of life to think the unthinkable.