Trigger Warning
The world revolves,
sun casts the fields pink and yellow,
in small finite steps
a young boy takes on the tint.
The remains of past wars
occupy the between layers,
a tuft, a small button, another tuft –
there’s no accounting for this surface.
He puts his feet in ruts,
trips on stones,
somehow makes it to the river
without stepping on a landmine.
He’s a natural born soldier
veiled in a childhood shroud,
not a border to his name
or, at least, life and death only