Hurled up in a valley, in a land foreign to me
Is a war. Aged three. Orphaned.
The snow it plays with has grown red, more of crimson.
Some amusing sounds it has learnt. Quite loud they are.

In the morning news, I see a lot of it.
Mostly on the front page.
Quite many numbers it is fond of.
Integers they are, most of the time.

People here and everywhere speak badly of it.
They say it’s very cruel and vicious.
Hours and hours of dialogues they do
To put a cease to it, to bring a doom on it.

Eventually, they will succeed, the end is near
For the war has fatigued, it’s time for it to self-cripple
The numbers will surge a last flood, no death to them
With turning of pages, occasionally they will spring

While the war leaves, it leaves behind one darling toy of its
The landmine will remain buried under the snow, under the mud
Abandoned it’ll lay, orphaned by the orphan
Like an alien left behind by the saucer

Long seasons of passivity it will have to endure
Eventually, it will serve a deed, an inconsequential one
The prolonged vowel of silence for the landmine
Will make itself plainly heard, a winter thud

Not a marching boot, or a brown jeep this time, but
A grazing cow one day, a man with a shovel the other
Or maybe two siblings on a cycle, on a childhood voyage
Whoever it is, the landmine embraces with an elegance, a poise.