Why spoil the red carnations
\nfalling on the snow?
\nI have never gone there,
\nin that oblivious crossroads of death.
\nHe never knew what grew
\nin the ditches of white,
\ndandelions, poppies,
\nperhaps roses against the cottages.<\/p>\n
In the waste of the cold,
\nagainst the curtains
\nthat covered the cannons of the tanks.
\nWhat did anything matter
\nexcept the silence of the snow,
\nthe frost covering his face?
\nThe disjointed love of his youth
\nbeing lost in a coffin of white roses,
\nblood mixed with the wine of his crucifixion.<\/p>\n
I was in Paris months ago.
\nTo the north was that place.
\nIn that country of foreign names,
\nbattles unremembered by children,
\ndecades disappearing,
\nwith the passage of ghosts
\nstruggling on the roads.
\nAmong them,
\nhis young face ravaged,
\nhis dreams broken,
\nin the black destiny of a winter,
\nwhere he looked into the whiteness
\nand saw stars exploding.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Why spoil the red carnations falling on the snow? I have never gone there, in that oblivious crossroads of death. He never knew what grew…<\/p>\n