Put your hearts under the beds—exhausted neglected shoesnot to be covered by the dust of war:                                                                               “and you shall not know.”Put your hearts on the case of an old and broken clock,so the raid won’t shake them:                                                                “and you shall not be sad.”In war the heart expands, becoming a boat for the children, an hour of      clarity, and a sky for writing.In war the heart chokes, words flee, and along its edge birds melt into      red dew.It flutters on a tall post—a gasp called the homeland.In war you leave your heart aside and you salvage a bundle of paper:your old picture at the school gate, the deed of your demolished home,      your son’s birth certificate.Your heart doesn’t matter now. The beloved will await war’s end to      ask: did you remember me?In war no one believes your grief-stricken heart. The rescuers scaleyour arms to hold up the roof of sobbing, the planes land theirshadows around you, and your soul flies out like a flock of glass.You are the time and nothing aims a piece of shrapnel at a soul butyou. Maybe you long to throw your heart at your children like a ball.Maybe you long to open the window without the shot of a straywoman. It’s alright, it’s war, another one and it will pass.In war time commits suicide.The day goes by before it’s your turn for the bathroom. The hour isthat space between a building embraced by a missile and anotherone opening its chest for the last person gasping ona street about to exit history instantaneously. As for the minute, nominutes in war, time is rather measured by martyrs:a hundred and a thousand. In war we sit, no legs to carry us and run.In war a missile follows you like a loyal dog and a boring neighborexchanging greetings and bad jokes.You etch a tattoo shaped like home into memory.It was a beautiful home before the arrival of the missile.In war the children are embarrassed by their tantrums, they growbefore us as if we’re meeting old neighbors. How are you, son? I’m stillrunning father, I’m still running, alone in the madness race.In war you brought me into the experience. You’re the one whodragged the fairytale’s ghouls to my door. You’re the one who withpremeditation forgot the barbecue on, and I’m screaming: it’s myheart. You did not hear and you did not forgive. Of love, you leftnothing; of hate, you left nothing for me to finish the poem. Thenyou, like a pale cloud of smoke, deceived me into safety.In war life envies you for life. Gangrene homes, windows of hysteria,and the eczema of streets, everything in the horrifying scene resentsthat you could see it all and not cry.In war you’re not made of flesh and bones, you’re someone else in thesame clothes, bloodied, dirty, and lying—testifying that you’re notdead yet.