Márcia Batista Ramos

The destroyed windows
Ended the winter and the snow that quenched thirst.
The city was transformed into ruins on corpses.
The wind brings tears, prayers and a foul smell.
Life was ripped out like useless pages from a notebook.
Life was extinguished and thrown away, just like everything that is useless in a consumerist world.
The old women will no longer want to remember their first dance so that the tears do not burn their faces in the same way that the missiles burned the fields, the children, the dogs, the flowers, the cats…
Old women yearn for death so they can leave Mariupol, Kyiv, Bucha, Odessa…
The destroyed windows no longer serve to look at the sky.

I hear my voices
In the immensity a word from me.
Who listens?
I listen.
There is an echo in me
From within repeat the word.
From inside the word grazes my ear.
I write the word with the intention of going far.
I sing the same song.
In the soup three letters.
With the spoon I scribble:

Everything that hurts passes. The war will also pass.
Mutilated souls will remain. Unhinged children.
Men in pieces. abused women. But the war will pass.
Later, those on the right or those on the left will wage another war.

Inner temple
Behind the words, the fear.
Someone weeps for comfort.
Lives imprisoned by the decisions of others.
Quick memories like blinks: times gone, beautiful times.
While the rockets invade the night.
Sirens, screaming and landslides…
Cry to God. Cement mud and blood.
The eye fixed on a truncated dream.
What is truly distressing and schizophrenic is resignation.
For the forge of destiny there is no salvation.
There are prayers in the midst of horror. There is fear.
In the dark basement silence is mistaken for calm.
Imaginary flutters. Fires without white sheets.
Smell of rotten apples.
In the mind, wishes are confused with prayers.
In the inner temple, inert life is confused with death

Infinite wound
Unspeakable memories
On the horizon the mass graves
Buildings scorched by fire at night
Wreckage sprinkled with vulnerability and human remains
There’s a girl lost in the world in ruins
Beyond the smiling complicity of Biden and Putin.

Unexplain to say otherwise
Squeeze the bitter orange as a poisonous drop
is learning about life
It is to stop being a child to play to be great

Get away in a morning on a train
Leave the patio the flowery garden
Save memories in the aroma of coffee with bread
Is to know that the stars shine in the light of noon

talk about resurrection
Honor the memory of heroes
Believing in the promise of reunion after death

That’s life
It is finding reasons to continue living despite the war.

And who cares?

I didn’t want to be born in a world like this:
Full of sobs and screams.
I would prefer the tenderness of a hug.
Because I like plans and sugary desserts.
I don’t like the black hand on fate.
I prefer the sun on the beach and see two planets aligned.
I do not accommodate myself to this world without comfort.
Where nothing is easy. Except die in a war.
I wish the promises were kept.
That the words spoken were sincere.
That the blood only ran in the veins.
I didn’t want to be born in a world like this:
Pregnant with pain.
I prefer the good in any circumstance.
I long for peace for the entire planet.
I didn’t want to be born into a world at war.
That’s why I say: Enough! And who cares?

Márcia Batista Ramos, Brazilian. Degree in Philosophy-UFSM. Cultural manager, writer, poet and literary critic. Editor in Spain; columnist in Bolivia, Mexico, Spain, Chile and Brazil. She published several books and anthologies, and also appears in several anthologies with essays, poetry and short stories. She is a contributor to international magazines in more than 38 countries.

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