Among weekend camfires and suburb trees, Among Sunday prayers and family strife We, the children of books, lived so care-free Pining in the boredom of our lives. Kids are endlessly wexed by their petty routines So we fought ripping shirts and newly-bought jeans. But our moms mended up our clothes every time While we drank our books, gulping line after line. Pale sunlight streamed through the lattice of blinds Secret language of shadows that lived in the past. And the smell of the gunpowder tantalized our minds Whiffing from the yellowed pages like dust. In our books we could find Fiery beats of the drums, Shrieks of battlefield cries, Flying coats of arms, Meaning of the word "orders," Maps of clever attacks, Cloaked spies, secret murders, Hidden trails and tracks. Raging fires of ancient battles and wars Held the fuel for our tireless brains And our enemies we imagines in roles Of spies, traitors, cowards, Judas, and Canes In our dreams we were always so clever and brave Charming dames we would always be able to save As in beautiful songs sang by old minstrels In the roles of the heroes we saw ourselves But the age of dreams is always so short Just around the corner are real wars to be fought Try to look in thes face of your fallen friends And to wrestle the weapons from their tired hands Wrap your fingers around the handle, still warm, Itís no time to stop to think or to mourn It is there where you will find before very long If you are coward or hero, feeble or strong When your friend first time falls by your side, And your heart shatters in the midst of a fight, When you feel as if left without your skin íCause it should have been you, and not him                                        
© Elena Garrett. Translation, 2014