“I have good bones, don’t worry about me. I can do it.”
You smile at me, I see you walking slowly, with a smile on your face.
“Do you want us to stop?” I ask with humility.
You don’t answer me, you smile, you keep walking.
How many tired wrinkles on your face, grandfather. They are all medals, of a lived life.
“Do you want us to stop? You look tired, “you ask, laughing.
“I can do it. I have good bones, “I reply and laugh.
You keep walking, I see your tired step, your good bones getting more and more tired.
«Let’s stop» I order, but you don’t listen, you know it better than me, stopping is the same as dying.
War doesn’t care who you are, it feeds on souls, without distinction.
We walk hidden by the night, I see your aching face, hide your tired bones.
How many sacrifices did those bones make?
How many sunsets have you seen?
How many hot meals he brought home, amid the whistling’s of bombs.
“Your bones are good, let them see the dawn of a new day” I whisper in your ear, you look at me tired.
I won’t let you answer, I take you in my arms, as you did when I was little, and my bones were too young. As the dawn smiles on a new day.
“Grandpa, your good bones have brought us to safety,” I whisper as you sleep on the bed in the infirmary.nbsp;