He grabs the string and runs and the kite flies high, so high.
The colours mix and blend and bleed above the sky.
the string becomes a trail of smoke,
the kite a fighter jet,
the sky, once blue, is now a thought,
The children laughed, sang songs and played,
the earth below them pleasant.
The sun shines every day, it seems
on the houses of the peasants.
The naivete of children
is the strength that makes men saints,
because their smiles can wipe away the sins
that always block the way.
But a child holds in his hands a simple string,
while in your hand a trigger stings,
and your machine gun sings…
The grass is red,
the children dead,
the sky is dark with clouds,
and you will now forever be
destined to live without,
without the gentle voices that once whispered in your ears,
take me us fly our kites dear dad,
we’ve not done this for years…
C.2020, Francisco Bravo Cabrera, 11 AGO 2020, Valencia, Spain