Maria Găitan Mozes,
HELMET
Broken and burnt
By the fires of hell,
Gathered in a bullet
Or maybe touched by a bombshell,
The helmet gazes to the clear skies
Like the eyes of a child.
This helmet belonged to someone at one time.
It protected a soldier
From the sun
And to be a safeguard
So that Death would not get him.
Now it’s only a nest
With weeds and dust
The empire of a world
Of small insects
That see it as their mountain.
Hidden behind a hill,
Between blades of grass and layers of flowers,
The helmet gathers forgetfulness and rust…
At one time
This helmet belonged to someone…
Photos: Irina Airinei
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