The Small Boy

The small boy is in awe of the spectacle,
The night sky is criss-crossed by fingers of bright light.
At a sudden, the plane is caught, all fingers point to it.

The small boy sits between nonno and nonna on a bench.
It’s late in the night, it’s damp in the cellar, the murmurs are muted.
A cat moves swiftly along; the ceiling starts to crumble; darkness ensues.

The small boy shares a seat on the train with his seniors.
The sun reigns on the country landscape, cool air comes in the open window.
The roar of aircrafts empties the carriage, but terror wanes with the vanishing sound.

War never ends, it merely pauses.
War takes no notice of small boys or girls.
I know. I was that small boy.