The winds and smells and noises from the distant wars are blowing. Someone looks up; another one looks down. There are no warriors anymore. They are just children.

The bleeding wounds have long been healing. They’re sitting deep beneath the skins of thousand beings – long forgotten.

The trenches have long been filled with blood and clothes and bodies of women. Grass is growing above them all. No apple trees are growing here; this is another squere.

This is the dream we’re all but dreaming. This is insane and still we’re trying to insist, that nothing else could have saved us.

All this had to be done.

One thousand years and counting from the day I will be dead, there won’t be any humans left. Was all the fighting worth it?

Where are the libraries that tell about the heroes of the war? The grass won’t tell; the smell sounds far.

The howling winds then are the voices of the dead. They’ve been those for thousands and thousands of years. But no human was dare to listen.

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        © Dominik Alexander / 2023
        © Alejandro Piñero Amerio (image)