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Z.Herbert "Deszcz"."rain"


When my older brother 

came back from the war

he wore a silver star on his forehead

and under the star


a fragment of a bomshell

hit him at Verdun

or Grunwald

(he can’t exactly remember)

he talked much

in many languages

though the one he liked the most

was the language of the history

until breathless moments

he raised fallen comrades from the ground

his friends- Rolland Feliksiak Hannibal

he cried

that this is the last crusade

that soon Carthage will fall

and then between sobs he confessed

that Napoleon doesn’t like him

we watched

as he paled

senses lost to him

he slowly turned into statue

into musical shells of ears

spread stony forest

skin of his face

was fastened

with two blind and dry

buttons of his eyes

the only thing left was the

sense of touch

and what stories

he told with his hands

in the right one he had romances

in the left memories of a soldier

they took my brother

and removed him outside of a city

he comes back every fall

thin and silent

he doesn’t want to go inside

knocks on my window so I go out

we walk on the streets

and he tells me 

tall stories

touching the face

with blind fingers of tears

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