Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

He just happened upon them
In a field lying there in the tall
Grass on their backs, seemingly
Sleeping, but dead; two children
Of Finnish origins, maybe, at least
By where they’re found and area
Of ground. She lay as if trying to
Catch the sun’s attention, with one
Hand by her side, the other resting
On her thigh. The boy lay a little
Way away small fists clenched tight
As if frozen by death in pose to fight.
The soldier walked slowly around
Them beneath the hot sun, wiped his
Brow, reached inside his pocket for
A cigarette, fumbled for a lighter,
Stood over the girl six or seven,
She oblivious of her state of dress
Or how she lay. The soldier inhaled
Deep, the hot smoke hit his throat
Made him choke. Kids killed in cold
Blood in war; no joke. It was 1942
He remembers now, taking up the
Photograph of white and black,
Taken in midst of war and battle
Scarred and brain in fog, wearied
By march and sight and smell of death.
Whose kids they were he never knew,
Sleeping in death’s claim; two kids,
In a field without memory, without name.

Finnish children killed by Soviet partisans at Seitajärvi in Finnish Lapland 1942.

had a hard time with this one- good writing

Thank you, creativesoul

a painful reminder (both your poem & the photo) that war is not joke (specially for the ones in the crossfire), gracias dadio

thank you, Arcadia

heartbreaking.

and let's not forget the kids who fight the never-ending cycle of war either.

Indeed, Mnaz. Good point. Thank you.