I send this apocryphal telegram,
not to the generals, those who sleep in clean beds,
nor to presidents, senators, and other insignificants
of our beloved and idolized homeland,
but to the last scraps of humanity still standing
in this army too tired to exist.
“News: depression
has won the last two battles.
It won without honor, as always do
the things that kill us from the inside.
No tanks, no gunfire, no grenades,
just the weight of waking up to yet another morning
without reason, without purpose, without coffee.
There are those who’ve already lost hope —
deserters of their own minds,
cowards slouched into their own bodies,
vagabonds of thought,
all of them worthy of my envy!
For I, unfortunate among the still-thinking,
still scream in the inner trenches,
still bathe, still write verses,
still dress myself like a person each day,
lace up my boots and march toward slaughter.
Oh, if only it were a visible war!
If only there were blood — if only it smelled like gunpowder
instead of the stench of a wet pillow,
instead of the growl of a stomach that eats
every other day.
If only there were an enemy in uniform,
a tormentor with medals and a moustache,
instead of this impersonal absence
gnawing at my will to live from the edges in.
But hear this:
there is still war at the front.
There are still maps on the makeshift table,
once a living tree, now a tool
for war and destruction.
There are still plans, though no one reads them.
There is still poetry — that last ridiculous trench
where I pretend to have ammunition.
And maybe — who knows —
there’s still a midnight yet to come
where from afar one might hear
the limping march
of those who keep trying."