Dead young soldiers

Lonely, under darkest earth, in the softest weaving night

are the long lost boys still dreaming

of a God who did not hear them,

of dead eyes in blackened orbits, where the eyeballs once shone white.

Without stars, without the glimmer and those shadows on the walls…

No more flashes of the bright lights for the bones of any heroes,

and the silence far and wide echoes in their unheard calls.

Steps of madness are still marching, where the faint ghosts of the old

around corners still are watching, deep inside the empty mirrors,

where the time is still on hold and where death is getting old.

Peace of mind returns on instants, only, when the snow is melting,

or when winds are caught in trees, or, when suddenly, ahead,

one blue butterfly emerges. Say, how long have we been dead?