Not for us

 We still need to talk about the war
of the icy breath that whispers in the ear
the moment of suffering sought,
while the images of blood
form a dark halo
on our petrified bodies.
This war, those wars
as Braudillard would say they don't exist,
they are simulacra that depict blood
The screech of unheard-of suffering,
the grimaces of pain, the compressed silhouettes of the soldiers
inside battle gear from which weapons and symbols hang
of ferocity that drive away madness
and instill spirit in a sick body,
they do not exist. Not for us who are not on the battlefield.
We strive every day to feed the fire of our humanity
and make those images real.
It is not possible, if it were
we would absorb all the madness of war
in our bodies
and humanity would end before the bullets arrived.
Not for us who go on with our lives
to maintain a semblance of normality
the day the soldiers will go home
and civilians will lick their wounds
and they will cling to the virtual world they have lost.
Not for us, who still enjoy fatal moments
and small abuses of a sick routine.
We would like to extract knowledge from pain
and the pain from knowledge,
but we are overwhelmed by the false
image of reality, which becomes an empty bark of commentators
soulless and with an improvised grin
of those who announce the tragedy during a family lunch.
It is not for us to live for death and blood spatter,
until we lose everything
and we will put on the mask of the condemned to death