Whatís wrong with the world? Itís the same as ever, The sky still as blue as before, The same woods, the same water, just the same weather, But he isnít home from the war. I cannot make out, who was wrong, who was right, When we fought day and night without pause, Only now do I wish he were here by my side, When he hasnít come home from the wars. His outbursts lacked tact, he was mute and distracted, Off topic, an ignorant bore, Kept me up from the crack of the dawn, he was active, But never came home from the war. What matter the emptiness? more of the same, But to realize our duoís no more, Made me feel that the wind had extinguished a flame When he never came back from the war. Captive springís bursts free of its bonds, Unthinking, I turn to implore "Pal, leave me a smoke," only silence responds, He hasnít come home from the war. Our dead never leave us in need, and forever Our fallen, like guards, will stand by, The watery woods are a mirror to heaven, Their trees are the color of sky. There was plenty of room in the trenches for two, Time enough for us both to endure, Iíve the world to myself now, but still, in my view, It is I whoís not back from the war.
© Brigit McCone. Translation, 2015