Life After

Hell is not when the earth explodes under your feet,
But when a mother holds a part of her child
And cannot tell – is it a hand, or the tenderness that remains.

Hell is not the roar of shells,
But the silence in a basement where twenty people
Are afraid to breathe aloud,
Because to be heard alive – means to become a target.

Hell is not death.
It is the life after, when you hear the explosion –
Even if silence has long since fallen.
When shadows – are more dangerous than people.

Hell is the face of a soldier
Who has returned – but not with himself.
His heart remained in the trench,
Wrapped in the scream of a comrade.

Hell is when the words: “I love you”
Seem superfluous, because you do not know
If there will be anyone to say them to tomorrow.
Or if you yourself will still be…
And the worst hell of all – is habit.

— The habit of living in this.
— The habit of waking up after the sirens.
— The habit of not hoping.