Spring of ’48
But there was no celebration.
No lambs were roasting in the village
Those who had remained
Wanted only peace
They ran toward their destination
To protect
Whatever was left
That was still their own
Many underage children
Had stayed in the village
Others had been left orphans
With no purpose at all
They ran like hunted birds
Through roads and fields
Their clothes all worn and old
Torn by the bushes
They protected the children
As if they were all their own
They were their future
Their only consolation
Five children went out
As they did every day
To go play far away
In the fresh air
With stones they aimed at
A large landmine
They danced upon it
On its iron flesh
Dinkas, the villager, passed by
He was older than them
“Leave here quickly!
Go back to the village!”
But after noon, we
Obsessed and determined
Without anyone else knowing
Started again
But little Christos
Who had gone to relieve himself
As God must have willed it
Saved himself
Then Giorgakis
Who was a bit stronger
Took a large stone
And threw it at the trigger
The mine exploded
And the whole village shook
Across the region
Windows shattered from the blast
Behind the trunk of the walnut tree
Where Christakis had hidden
Shrapnel struck him at once
He was wounded in the head
He searched his little body
With his tiny hands
Not knowing if he was whole
Or torn to pieces too
He ran around the village
Screaming like a mad child
“Please tell me,
Am I dead or alive?”
He went back to see
What had happened to the other children
Giorgakis had vanished
There was no body left
He looked up into the branches
Entrails, children’s flesh
Blood upon the ground
And one body face-down
He turned the little body over
But the face was gone
He lifted him in his arms
Just before he breathed his last
One leg was missing
Along with his trousers
He died in his arms
The other little leg twitching
“Why, my Dimitraki,
Did you do this to me?”
He cried and shouted
With incurable grief
Christos and Kostas
Who were farther away
Their mothers gathered
Their scattered pieces in their aprons
Horror seized the boy
Before the sun had set
He ran up into the mountain
Thinking it was his fault
He went to hide in the mill
For three days and three nights
He made coarse bread to eat
He too wanted to die
Worms infested his head
Where the wound had been
They found him on the mountain at night
And brought him back to the village
Those little children
Who were torn into a thousand pieces
Their little souls up above
Became angels
And ever since, that child
Remembers that terrible day
In his sleep he trembles And mourns
From the collection's own note: the images with these poems are AI-created artistic renderings by the source, not historical photographs.